Who Had Strength Enough To Pull Down The Moon
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: "...as soon as you start thinking it, you find reasons everywhere - reasons it would be a good idea, reasons it would be okay, reasons it would be right. That's how you fell into the light or the dark...You started thinking." ::slight smattering of Torklenz in later chapters - nothing big::
1. Prologue: A Fear Deep As Roots

Who Had Strength Enough To Pull Down The Moon

By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

Prologue: A Fear As Deep As Roots

He shouldn't have waited so long.

Staring at himself in the mirror despondently, he sighed. His eyes glinted green, an unusual moss green, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

It was roiling in his center, shivering through his bones painfully. It made his teeth chatter loudly, and he worried for a moment that one of his housemates might hear them clattering in the still of the night.

Well, he thought, no use waiting any longer.

It was oddly chilly for the time of year, he noticed as he wobbled unsteadily down the steps and onto the sand, but that thought was soon overwhelmed by the urge to wriggle his toes into the gritty soil beneath his feet, snake them down deep and stretch them out in all directions. He would drink deep of what the earth had to offer, grow tall and spread leaves into the night air…

Shaking himself, he lurched sideways, around to the corner of the house. He had meant to do this further away - at the park, perhaps, where the results would go unnoticed - but he'd waited until the last minute like a complete fool. He could barely make it far enough away from the bedrooms to reduce the risk of waking his friends.

He reached out as he sank to his knees, curling his fingers into the sand as deeply as he could, twisting and working until his hands were buried up to the wrist. Letting his eyes slip half-shut, he reached into his center, gathered up the fluttering strands of power, and pushed.

It was like a sledgehammer blow, echoing in his heart as it pounded down his arms, slamming into the earth from his fingertips silently, unstoppably. His bangs fluttered in front of his eyes, then stilled. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the sea behind him.

Then it burst from the sand not inches from his nose, thickening and aging and lurching high into the sky, branches rippling outward over his head. He could feel the roots, writhing downward and outward, roiling under his knees.

It groaned as it grew, deep and resonating, cracking alarmingly on occasion. Bark thickened and grew coarse, flaking off into his hair as vivid leaves burst forth with a sound like a thousand birds taking flight. The deep moan grew higher in pitch until, with a final, soft whine, everything stopped.

He sighed, clambering around to lean back against the tree he'd grown, his joints feeling too loose. He felt empty, hollowed out, as he always did after this. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly, but it certainly wasn't the most fun he'd ever had.

Letting his head fall back against the trunk, he stared up at the leaves and pursed his lips.

It was an oak.

A bur oak, actually. He knew, because there had been one in his backyard growing up. His great-grandfather, who had been an oak-y sort of man, had grown it decades ago. It had been the young shaman's favorite place to hide when things got tense within the walls of his childhood home.

Still, he was not pleased to see the tree he'd grown. It had always used to be hawthorn trees. He'd gotten very used to them being hawthorns. They were _his_ trees, after all. He felt comfortable with them, anyway, which he certainly didn't with the oak. Not his own oaks, at least, because they weren't supposed to _be_ oaks. It was jarring to see them springing up in front of him.

Trees (really, anything that was manifested out of natural energy) were specific to the individual, because besides the energy one absorbed from the world around them, one also put one's own energy into creating them. The work you did was always personalized by your aura, like a spiritual signature, and besides marking out what was yours to other shamans, it also played a role in shaping what you created.

He knew where he stood with hawthorns, because they reflected his deepest insides, his center. He had no idea what this new change represented, but he was sure he didn't like it. He was agitated all the time now, jittery and jumping at the smallest sounds. It was no wonder he'd been unconsciously drawing on the earth's energy so much lately - his body was trying to prepare him for something, something big.

Whatever it was, he hoped it didn't involve him. There was enough garden-variety weirdness surrounding the otherwise-average existences of the four musicians, and the last thing he needed was something _really_ out-there invading their lives. He'd worked hard to keep his other life a secret from his friends, and he wasn't keen on being outed now.

Struggling to his feet, he gave his new tree a gentle pat. "Welcome to the world," he whispered, as he always did. It never hurt to be kind, after all, no matter how disconcerting the oak tree was. You never knew when you'd need a tree on your side.

He'd only just managed to wobble inside and over to the fridge (milk would help, he thought, milk always helped) when a soft, sleep-rough voice made him jump.

"Whatcha doin' up, Peter?"

Swallowing hard, Peter turned to meet Mike's curious gaze. The guitarist was leaning against the staircase, arms crossed, eyelids drooping ever-so-slightly. He didn't look too terribly threatening, even with the spooky way the shadows crept across his tired face, but Peter couldn't help the sudden surge of fear he felt.

_ Did he see?_

_ Does he know?_

_ What do I do if he does?_

"U-um…m-m-milk," he stuttered out, holding up the nearly-empty bottle.

Mike blinked at him blearily. "Milk?"

"Uh…had trouble sleeping," Peter elaborated. "I thought some warm milk would help."

For a moment, Mike was still and silent, and Peter wondered if he'd fallen back asleep where he stood. Then the Texan sighed and shuffled over to his best friend, clasping his shoulder lightly. "Pete," he murmured, "you'd tell me if somethin' was bothering you, right? Only you've been actin' a bit…odd, even for you. So if somethin's goin' on-"

"No, Mike," he said quietly, feeling somehow pleased and guilty at the same time. "Nothing's going on - I'm just really awake tonight, I guess. What…what are you doing up?"

"Thought I heard something outside," came the reply, freezing Peter's breath in his lungs. "Peeked out, but I didn't see anything'."

No, Peter thought, he wouldn't have, would he? Not unless he'd gone outside and stuck his head around the corner. Peter let out a quiet, relieved breath. "Oh. I didn't hear anything. It was probably just me - I wanted to get some air, and I wasn't being very quiet on the stairs. I'm sorry."

He hated lying, hated how it tasted in the back of his throat, and he especially hated lying to Mike. His vertically-gifted friend had really been more like a brother for almost as long as they'd known each other - he looked out for the rest of them, guided them, comforted them, protected them. Mike was Peter's best friend, and it rankled that he had to keep such an important secret from the man.

He did have to, though, because it wasn't just Peter's secret to keep and to give away at will.

So when Mike sighed again and muttered a quiet, "Okay, Shotgun," Peter simply swallowed his guilt with his milk, replaced the bottle with a shaking hand, and bid Mike goodnight.

Even burrowed deep in his blankets, though, ears full of the sounds of Davy shifting and snuffling faintly in his sleep, Peter could feel Mike staring at him through the door.

Tired and drained as he was, it took him a long time to fall asleep.

A/N - I've been thinking about this one for a while, and I've finally gotten it started! Wahoo! What a way to celebrate Nez's concert tickets going on sale, huh?  
FYI, this isn't going to be Torksmith. There might be a slight suggestion of Torklenz in later chapters, but nothing really notable, or important, even. It's not really the point of the story, after all.  
Off to a mysterious start, huh? Hope y'all are as psyched for the next chapter as I am - it'll contain death omens, more oak trees, and suspicious behavior on the parts of the entire cast! Also, there may be something even more dangerous than a death omen poking its nose in…  
Review, please - I need it like burning.


	2. In The Wake Of Unfortunate Circumstances

Chapter One: In The Wake Of The Unfortunate Circumstances

About a week had passed since Peter had grown an oak tree beside their house when he was awoken by a girlish shrieking.

At first, he groaned, rolled over, and pulled his pillow over his head. He didn't mind it so much when one of the others had a girl over, but sometimes it got a little ridiculous. It wasn't even fully light out.

Then he realized that the person screaming wasn't so much a girl as they were Micky.

Peter's first instinct was one of concern - his friend sounded as though something horrifying had just happened, like a murder. He really should get out of bed and rush to Micky's aid. It's what friends were for, right?

But then again, it could be any number of things, considering who was doing the screaming. Maybe Micky had decided to give one of Peter's energy shakes another chance. Or maybe he'd gotten his foot caught in the ceiling fan again. Or he'd just found out they were cancelling _Dark Shadows_ (which Peter would have been very grateful of - it was a terrible show).

Before he could talk himself into either investigating or ignoring the ruckus, however, there was a great pounding at the bedroom door.

"Peter! Davy! Which one of you little jerks left a dead bird in my boot!?"

Peter sat up at the same time Davy did, looking over at his roommate with a frown.

"A dead…" Davy blinked, scratching the back of his head.

"Bird," Micky shouted as he flung the door open, his face twisted in disgust. "A dead! Bird!"

He held out the offending corpse by the wing with two fingers. It swung pathetically, mangled and ratty, in front of Peter's nose.

"That's a sparrow," he murmured as a couple of the bird's flight feathers fluttered onto his lap.

Micky sighed through his nose and waggled the dead bird a bit. "I don't care what it is, Peter. I care that I just stepped on a dead bird. Do you know what it's like to step on a dead bird? It squished and crunched at the same time. Do you know what that sounds like? What that feels like? I will tell you," he barreled on, ignoring Davy's hesitant cough. "It feels very. Not. Good. I would go so far as to say it feels bad. Very bad. So very bad that I don't think I've felt any sensation worse, and I have gotten broken bones. I am going to have nightmares about this," he finished, trying to purse his lips angrily and ending up with a somewhat ludicrous pout.

Peter regarded Micky calmly, fairly unaffected by the tough expression Micky was trying on. People liked to say that Peter was not capable of being threatening. Micky liked to say it, too, when Peter was trying to make him return whatever bits or pieces the drummer has pilfered for his inventions. It was true, he was sure - Peter just didn't really have it in him to be intimidating, but neither did Micky. Micky's version of intimidating someone was talking as fast as he could, as loud as he could, for as long as he could until they wandered away in confusion.

Really, the only one of them who did have a knack for it was Mike. The Texan could cow anyone just by looming conspicuously with a general air of not-pleased-ness.

Speaking of, Mike had poked his head through the doorway at the start of Micky's rant, and was now holding out a paper lunch bag for Micky to drop the offending cadaver into. "It's okay, Mick," he was saying soothingly. "I'm sure nobody put it there. It probably got stuck there in the middle of the night or something and died."

"If I got stuck in something that had touched Micky's feet, I probably wouldn't last long, either," Davy grumbled, flopping back onto his pillow and pulling up the bed sheets determinedly.

"Ha. Ha," Micky deadpanned. "And also? Ha."

"I think you forgot 'ha'," Peter offered absently, staring at the paper bag contemplatively. Dead sparrows were never a good thing, after all, and with all the weird energy hanging around…

But it was only one bird, and Gran had always warned him about getting too caught up in studying omens. You started seeing them everywhere, under every ladder and in every pile of spilled salt. She hadn't held omens, good or bad, in much esteem, because sometimes things just happened. People dropped forks, people sneezed more than once, animals died in all kinds of ways. There was nothing mystical about it…usually.

He offered to bury it anyway, because the idea of tossing any kind of animal in a dumpster, no matter how dead, just didn't sit right with him. Tossing an animal that might be carrying some heavy bad energy was just not a good idea. So he dug down as deeply as he could amongst the roots of his oak, bundled the little corpse in white cloth, and laid it in gently.

"You know," Mike drawled as Peter tipped spade after spade of sand into the grave, "I could have sworn we didn't have any trees by our house."

Peter swallowed his knee-jerk panic response and shrugged, patting at the little mound with the spade. He could feel the roots of his tree twining around the little bird welcomingly.

"I mean, you don't really see a lot of trees on the beach, especially like this one. They're hard to miss."

"Well," Peter said simply, "you must have done, because there's one right here. It couldn't have just popped up overnight, right?"

Mike raised an eyebrow when Peter looked up at him defiantly, hands cupped palm-up in his lap. There was another long moment, like the one in the kitchen a week ago, where Mike simply stared.

"Okay, Shotgun," he said eventually, stuffing his hands into his pockets and walking away.

Groaning, Peter let himself fall sideways until his head knocked against the tree trunk. He reached out, tugging the roots around the sparrow until they encased it entirely.

If it was a bad omen, he could only hope that would help counter it, at least for a little while.

It probably would have worked fine, Peter reasoned as he turned down the bed, had it been the only bad omen he'd born witness to that day. Unfortunately, no amount of positive energy would have been able to cancel out all of them.

There had been a small swarm of dead crickets in the bathroom, which Peter had dutifully swept up and deposited amongst the roots of his tree, Micky making weird faces at him the whole time. He'd made even weirder faces, though, when a big black rat had run right across his toes when he'd sat down to watch _Dark Shadows_. Then there had been the two broken mirrors, which had shattered simultaneously, even though they had all been on the bandstand at the time. And the less Peter thought about the lone lightning strike that had produced a very pretty, yet ultimately evil-feeling glass sculpture that Davy wanted to keep, the better.

The first sparrow hadn't been the last, either - at noon, Mike had found one inside Blondie (and man, did he ever swear a blue streak - Peter's ears were still burning), and around dusk the Texan had also had the misfortune of being at the window when one dive-bombed him, killing itself in a kamikaze run against the glass and startling the bejeezus out of their guitarist.

He'd sworn another blue streak, though this one wasn't so much disgusted as frightened.

The shaman supposed he could have done more to help soothe everyone's nerves that day, but the sudden onslaught of what his Gran liked to call 'shifty juju' had him too spooked. He could barely keep himself level, much less worry about anyone else.

He still felt achy now, hours later, from the constant discharges he'd had to perform throughout the day. He'd already grown a small row of shrubs up one side of the Pad, and now they had a climbing vine creeping its way up the side of the building. About halfway through the day, as they were sweeping up the shards of mirror, Peter had unconsciously caused it to flower in little fluttery pops that had caught everyone's attention.

"What in the world was that," Mike had murmured, narrowing his eyes at the back door.

Davy had shrugged, plucking up the larger shards delicately. "Birds, sounds like," he'd theorized, grinning when Mike shuddered.

"Lord, I hope not," the Texan had answered with a grimace. "I've had enough of birds to last me a lifetime."

"_You've_ had enough of birds?" Micky had snorted at that, gesturing at Mike accusingly with the dustpan. "At least you didn't have to _step_ on one."

"It was _in_ my _guitar_." Mike had wrung his hands, sounding helplessly pathetic in a very un-Mike-ish way, and Peter wished, not for the first time, that he could explain why that wasn't a bad thing.

Mike's guitar, Peter had quickly realized upon meeting the man, was about the closest thing a non-shaman would get to a personal fetish - the magical sort, not the sexual sort, though with Mike and guitars, it was sometimes hard to tell the difference. It had been his for at least a decade, and he had cried, sweat, and bled over it. He had played his heart and soul on it, and it had been his constant companion through some of the roughest times of his life…and through some of the best. And, to cap it off, he'd given it a name, given _her_ a name, which pretty much sealed the deal.

Basically, from what Peter could tell, Blonde Beauty was imbued with all the things that were essentially Michael Nesmith; the guitar carried with it fragments of Mike's aura. It was a powerful item, and a protective item, just like Mike himself was powerful and protective. If there were going to be bits of shifty juju cropping up, probably the least damaging place they could crop up was inside Blonde Beauty, where the guitar could shield them from it.

But he couldn't tell Mike that, couldn't explain why leaving it there until Peter could dispose of it properly would be a good idea. Even if he could, he'd figured that perhaps poor Michael had been through enough that day. He'd been extra-jumpy since the crickets, and Peter certainly didn't want to push things.

"Hey," Davy's voice jerked him from his contemplations of guitar fetishes, "there's an owl outside."

Peter froze. "It's not looking at us, is it," he murmured. He peeked at Davy through his bangs worriedly.

The smaller man was leaning against the doorjamb to their room, arms crossed and looking entirely too at ease for someone who had spent the entire day having to check his shoes for dead things and broken glass. Outlined in the dim light of the kitchen, he looked a bit hazy to Peter, out of phase with the rest of the world.

The bassist blinked a few times, slowly making his way towards the doorway.

"No," Davy said, cocking his head. "It's just perching on the balcony. Why?"

Peter leaned over, peering around the doorway. Dread pooled in his stomach.

It was a beautiful bird, he thought, although he wasn't about to say anything to Mike or Micky, who had sworn off birds for the rest of their lives. It was a spotted eagle-owl, which was a bit incongruous, since they were an African species. He wasn't going to mention that, either.

"It's bad luck if an owl watches you through your bedroom window," he whispered instead.

Laughing softly, Davy nudged Peter with his elbow. "Guess all those mirrors have got you spooked, eh? It's just an owl, Pete. 'Sides, it's at the back door, and we don't have windows in our bedroom, so you can sleep easy."

As he said this, the owl turned its tufted head, its great, yellow eyes focusing on the pair.

Focusing on Davy.

Peter's fingers twitched, and he grasped Davy's sleeve and pulled him into the room, shutting the door firmly. "Um…just to be safe, though, maybe we should…stay here until it's gone."

Davy laughed again, patting Peter on the shoulder, and opened the door again. "It's an owl, Peter, not a government spy. I'm getting a glass of water, and no peeping owl is gonna stop me."

Peter studied the owl as Davy trekked into the kitchen. It was still, the way a predator learned to be still during a hunt. Only its fluffy head moved, those eyes, round and bright as gold coins, never leaving Davy the entire time. When Davy brushed by Peter and back into their room, he brought with him a bone-chill, and Peter let out a jerky breath.

"I'm gonna go shoo it away," he mumbled as Davy crawled under his covers.

"Whatever makes you happy, Peter," his roommate sighed.

He didn't shoo it away, though. Slipping onto the balcony, he crossed his arms and glowered at it.

"I don't know what's going on here," he hissed, "and I don't care. Whatever it is, they aren't part of it, so you can just leave them alone." He scanned the surrounding beach, speaking to the world at large. "Just leave them alone. Please."

The owl hooted softly and, finally taking its eyes from the door that guarded Davy, spread its wings and took flight.

Peter stumbled down the steps, his throat tight with panic. He barely had the presence of mind to move around to the side of the house, his oak at his back as he wriggled his hands into the sand and pushed.

Oak leaves rained down on him as the new tree burst into being before him, violently and with a great, earth-shuddering groan. Acorns pelted his shoulders, rolling down his back as tears rolled down his face.

Bad luck, he'd told Davy.

Yes.

Leaning forward and pressing gritty hands to the bark of his new oak, Peter rested his cheek against it, feeling the pure life coursing through it and trying to take comfort in it.

He supposed it hadn't been a lie. Death omens could be considered dreadfully bad luck, after all.

A shivery sob wormed its way up his throat, and he curled his legs up underneath himself, nestled safely amongst the roots of the new addition. He reached out with his aura and his fingers, running both down the older oak, and took comfort from them.

Whatever was coming, it was coming for them. There was no denying that, no matter how much he wished he could. Until he knew the nature of the threat, though, there wasn't much he could do about it except build up the Pad's protection as much as he could.

Peter dragged himself to his feet, misery etched across his face. This hadn't been what he'd wanted. When he'd left the east coast, he'd done it to get away from this, from the fighting and the sacrifice and the loss. He'd done enough of that, hadn't he? Hadn't he been through enough of that?

This was his safe place, his sanctuary. He shouldn't have to feel afraid here.

With a soulful sigh, Peter patted his new tree. "Welcome to life, my friend," he whispered dutifully.

It would be some hours before he'd creep back into the Pad and crawl into bed, having spent the time painstakingly circling his territory, laying down a Circle and enforcing it as much as he dared without lighting the place up like a beacon. Protection was all well and good, but it would be counterproductive if it attracted more skeevy things. Still, he wished he could make it stronger, make it impenetrable.

If it had just been him, alone, he would have simply picked up and run for it. He didn't like to fight, didn't like confrontation, and he had a deeply unsettling feeling that confrontation was exactly what he was going to get. It wasn't just him, though - he had people to protect, people who weren't about to just pack their stuff and hightail it out of there on his say-so. People who were being run across by rats and stared at by owls…

Quivering anxiously, Peter buried his face in his pillow, falling asleep with the memory of two gleaming golden eyes and feathers fluttering onto his lap.

When he awoke, it was partly because Davy was humming in his sleep again (This Just Doesn't Seem To Be My Day, ironically), and partly because he had to pee.

Mostly, though, it was because of the sudden cold, oily sensation creeping down his spine and buzzing behind his eyes, and he instinctively knew the cause.

There was a ghoul on the roof.

A/N - OMG YAY IT'S FINISHED. I'SE SO PROUD OF MYSELF.

Blonde Beauty being a fetish was actually the first inkling I had that spawned this idea - the concept of something being so deeply needed and loved and used by someone that it became a sort of talisman for them is something I've always been intrigued by. It is now in my headcanon, supernatural!fic or not.

Forever convinced that the real Blonde Beauty was stolen by a collector of powerful magical items to sell on the supernatural black market, a la Bella Talbot. Nothing you say will change my mind.

Anyway, chapter two will be a bit of a creepy, violent, and gory one, but definitely worth it! Do a bit of studying up on ghouls and the myths surrounding them to prep if you like…they're actually kind of fascinating, in an incredibly unpleasant way!

Tell me what you think - I LIVE OFF OF CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM, FOLKS.


	3. A Family Affair

Chapter Two: A Family Affair

Peter wasn't very fond of ghouls.

Such a statement seemed a bit ridiculous he thought as he slipped silently out of bed and reached into his nightstand for a charm sachet. No one was fond of ghouls, on a matter of principle. Peter didn't like to judge people, even people who were just slightly on the other side of the people/non-people divide, based on aspects of their nature they couldn't control.

Ghouls were what they were, after all, and who was Peter to judge?

This, though, was not normal ghoul behavior - coming into a home, especially a protected home, when there was plenty of readily available flesh waiting for them just six feet under. It made the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stand up, made his fingers clench around the sachet a little tighter, useless though it was in this case.

Whatever had brought the ghoul to the Pad, it wasn't good. Ghouls were of a demonic sort, caught between life and death in perpetuity. Peter didn't know how it happened, if they had been created by something, if they had been human once, if they were just pure shadow and rot, but whatever it was, it didn't make them ideal house guests. Despite this, Peter wasn't sure he could kill it. Death and violence didn't come naturally to Peter; they never had, and they never would.

His first priority, he decided, would be to draw the ghoul out of the Pad and away from his friends. He could figure out what to do with it afterwards.

Once, when he'd been very small, Peter had watched his Gran spin yarn with a drop spindle. It had been hypnotic to witness, the gentle sway of the spindle, the efficient way she wound the finished yarn, the way she'd tugged and thinned the wool as she worked. He'd especially liked watching her join the torn ends of two pieces of wool, the way the dream-soft fibers would catch together, twisted into something strong, something unbreakable. When it had come time for him to learn to borrow energy, Gran had started by teaching Peter to spin.

Creeping out into the living room, Peter tried to even out his breathing, his eyes slipping half-shut as he reached out, feeling the slow, earthy pulse of his trees, the pounding, unrelenting heartbeat of the ocean. He grasped at them, tugging and stretching and bundling the threads of nature's energy up, weaving them into his center, winding and rolling it all around like a ball of yarn, feeling the strands catch and hold. He spun it all tight, gathering it to his center, and breathed out.

I was always uncomfortable, taking in so much energy. It made him feel out-of-sorts with himself - he always had the weirdest urges, like the desire to sprout buds or erode the beach or whistle through canyons. It hummed inside him, just beneath his skin, making his limbs twitch and jerk. It was with great effort that he stilled them, pressed his charm sachet to his lips and uttering a silent plea to whatever Powers might Be.

Please, he begged, please let me be enough. Let me be enough to protect them. For once, let me be enough.

Taking a deep breath that sounded like wind in his leaves, Peter shoved the sachet into his pocket and left the Pad.

He rounded the house, coming to stand a few feet away from his trees, and looked up at the roof.

It wasn't terribly big for a ghoul, which tended to be unnaturally long and lithe, but it was a good deal bigger than Peter. It had taken a very common form for ghouls, resembling a hyena in the most basic of ways. Twisted, scar-like ridges patterned it's body, patches of skin clinging like wet tissue paper, tattered and torn away to reveal lean muscles underneath. It's tail was ragged, twitching back and forth agitatedly as its red-tinged eyes peered at Peter over a short, fang-filled muzzle. Save for the eyes, it was a greenish-gray shade, perfect for blending into muck and rotting foliage.

It shifted towards him, the hooves of its hind legs slipping on the shingles. Elongated fingers on elongated forelegs curled, yellowing claws digging in to prevent the thing from sliding off the roof.

It looked emaciated, Peter noted absently, but that wasn't unusual. Ghouls were always starving, eternally, and always for human flesh. It was in the eyes, as well, glinting reflectively like a cat's in the moonlight - gnawing, maddening hunger that would never be satiated.

That never stopped a ghoul from trying, though.

It hissed at him, lips curling back to reveal its teeth, teeth made for rending flesh from bone. Maggots wriggled between them, plopping onto the roof as the hiss turned to a savage snarl. Its tattered ears, smaller than a real hyena's would be, tilted forward, then flattened back, and it bent into a crouch.

Peter turned and ran.

It was, perhaps, a stupid thing to do. He could never outrun the ghoul - it was taller than he was, and has twice the legs, and Peter wasn't exactly the most graceful of people. Still, he had some experience running down the beach for his life, and he only hoped that he could get the ghoul far, far from his home before it devoured him.

Let me be strong enough, he prayed. Let me be fast enough. Let it be enough to save them.

And that was about when he tripped.

Quivering with fear for his friends, with anger at himself, and with borrowed power, Peter rolled onto his back, grasping at the sand with fingertips that sparked green. The beast bounded to him, looming over his prone body, the stench of rotted flesh overwhelming the shaman. A mouthful of teeth, writhing with pale white larvae, stretched into a grin.

"Stupid boy," the ghoul rumbled. "Stupid, weak little flower-picker. No running now."

He had to kill it, Peter told himself. He had to kill it - his life was at stake.

The power rolled through him, thrashing, fighting to be let loose.

He had to kill it, or he'd be devoured.

Instead, Peter closed his eyes and braced himself.

There was the low whistle of something being swung through the air, a sickening, crunching thud, and suddenly the ghoul was no longer pinning him.

Peter peeked through his bangs, breath coming in hard, harsh gasps, at Mike's angry, worried face. The Texan, hefting the iron fireplace poker they usually used to toast things when they had a rare beach bonfire, was glowering down at his blonde friend. The lines of his body were tense, his empty fist clenched into a fist.

"Just what in the hell were you thinking, Peter?!" Mike gestured at him with the poker, and Peter could see Micky and Davy behind the guitarist, both of them looking just as terrified and angry as Mike did.

The shaman opened his mouth to reply, but the dark, furious form of the ghoul launched itself through the air, bringing Mike crashing to the ground, and sank its teeth into his shoulder.

Mike's scream was not one Peter would ever forget.

He readied himself, but what could he do without catching Mike in the crossfire? They were locked together, Mike grasping at its ear and trying in vain to pull the ghoul off. The beast only dug in further, worrying Mike like a rag doll. Peter watched, feeling more helpless than he ever had in his life, trying desperately to cling to his restraint lest he hurt Mike in the attempt to save him. As he frantically ran through his options, he noticed that part of the ghoul's skull had been caved in and oozing pus where it had been his with the poker.

The poker, Peter thought. It was iron. It could hurt the thing. As he thought this, though, he realized that someone else had thought of it first.

Lunging forward suddenly, Micky snatched up the poker and, looking about as terrified as he'd ever been in his life, rammed it as hard as he could through the ghoul's side.

The effect was instantaneous, but probably not what Micky had hoped for - the ghoul released Mike, yes, letting out a sky-rending screech as the wound sizzled and smoked, but it then turned its ravenous, reddened gaze on the drummer.

Micky stumbled backwards, falling onto his rear in the sand, and did his best to keep putting distance between himself and the bloody muzzle pointing his way. He had gone pale, eyes wide and panicked, and for a moment, time seemed to slow to a halt.

Several things happened in the space of a breath then. The ghoul, springing off of Mike, landed scant inches from Micky. Micky let out a tiny whimper, lifting his arms to shield his face and throat. And Peter, reassured that Mike was now out of the line of fire, dropped to his knees, slammed his palms down against the sand and pushed.

It was a hawthorn this time, and Peter had never imagined he'd be so relieved to see one. It exploded from the sand beneath the ghoul, growing up around it, tangling it in its branches. Peter could hear the creaking of the trunk, punctuated by the crunch of ribs and spine and skull and the startled yelp that cut off suddenly, and he pushed harder, guilt and disgust powering through his trembling body.

When all had gone still and silent save the soft rustling of leaves, Peter crumpled, hot tears tracking down his cheeks.

He'd killed something. Horribly, viciously killed something that was only doing what it existed to do. His fingernails bit deeply into his biceps as he hugged himself, harsh sobs shuddering in his chest.

Then Davy and Micky were there, dragging him up and patting him down and firing frantic questions at him.

"Are you hurt?"

"Are you okay?"

"Can you hear me, Pete?"

"Peter, can you move?"

Peter shook his head, trying to breathe deeply. "I…"

Micky launched himself forward and wrapped Peter in a tight hug. "Christ, Peter, I don't know what the hell you just did, but you saved our lives."

Something in him eased a bit at the grateful words, and his guilt was soon entirely forgotten when Davy let out a violent curse and rushed from their sides.

Mike was lying in the sand, pale and still, blood splashed about like a macabre painting. Peter cried out, scrambling to his feet and tripping over to his friend.

"Mike," he rasped, reaching out and pressing his hand to the ragged wound on the Texan's right shoulder. It was deep, sickly dark lines creeping outward from it like a spiderweb, and the bones were likely shattered judging by how misshapen it looked - considering the circumstances, though, Peter knew he was lucky to even still have that arm.

"Oh, God," Micky breathed, dropping to his knees on Mike's other side and staring, his hands hovering over Peter's, unsure. "What do we do? How…what do we do?"

"Here," Davy barked, yanking his nightshirt up over his head and tossing it to Peter. "Press that to the wound, and keep pressure on it. Micky, you and I are gonna go back to the Pad-"

"Are you crazy, Davy, who knows what-"

"-and we're gonna find something to make a stretcher for him so we can get him back home," Davy finished, grasping the collar of Micky's tee and tugging him away.

"Davy, we can't just-"

"Both of you shut up," Peter muttered, hand still on Mike's shoulder, fingers digging into the puncture wounds determinedly.

Ghoul bites were strange things, Peter remembered. There were rarely stories of people surviving encounters with them, but it was always hinted at that no one came away from a bite like that unscathed. Rumors of cannibals and murderers who had thought themselves lucky to escape death by ghoul raced through Peter's mind as he pressed harder.

If they looked closely in the wan starlight, Micky and Davy could probably see the dark veins that had been stretching out from the wound receding, becoming lighter, and vanishing altogether. The would have also seen the flow of blood from the wound increase, oddly dark and thick. They definitely saw, Peter knew, Mike's shoulder gradually becoming less mangled, until the puncture wounds were all that were left.

"Peter," Davy whispered, eyes awed. "Peter, what did you…how did you…"

"What _are_ you?" Micky asked gently, running one shaking hand through his hair.

And Peter wanted to answer, really, but the day had finally caught up with him, and with a tiny sigh, he tumbled forward onto Mike's chest, consciousness slipping away.

The last thing he saw, outlined in the light of the moon, was the gnarled trunk of the hawthorn, bulging oddly at the middle, the handle of an iron poker jutting out like a spear. He slid into a deep sleep, the smell of rotting flesh and Michael's blood following him into his dreams.

A/N - Um…  
Wow.  
Sorry?


	4. Warnings Of Things Bigger Than Big

Chapter Three: Warnings Of Things Bigger Than Big

Regaining consciousness after emptying himself out was, usually, like floating from the bottom of a pool to the top, and getting hungrier and hungrier the closer you got to the surface. It was that same hollowed-out feeling his got whenever he discharged a lot of energy, the thin shell of his skin holding in the echoing tingle that was left. He felt scritchy inside, like the strands of power left were coarse and wooly and rubbing his joints ever-so-lightly.

There was something different this time, though, a sense of urgency. Something was wrong. He needed to be awake, but he couldn't remember why that was so important. It was, though, he knew it was, and so for the first time, instead of letting himself ease to the surface, he kicked.

Eyes snapping open, Peter jerked into a sitting position, prompting Micky to yelp and stumble backwards. The cloth he'd been using to wipe the sand from Peter's face dropped damply onto Peter's knee, and the two friends stared at each other for a moment.

"Micky?" Peter breathed, his throat dry and pin-prickly. He really needed milk, or maybe ice cream. He glanced around; they'd put him in his own bed, tucking him in like they had been making a Peter burrito. There was a glass of water by the bed, but he really, really just wanted that milk.

Micky bit his lip, plucking the cloth up and resuming brushing the grit from Peter's nose. His eyes were distant, and he looked about as awkward and unsure as Peter had ever seen him.

"Peter, I don't mind telling you, this has been a really stressful day."

"'M sorry, Micky," the shaman replied guiltily, his response somewhat muffled by the washcloth in his face.

"I mean, the dead things were bad enough, really, but this…"

Peter wanted to curl up and die. He had never, ever wanted his friends involved in any of this. They were good people, the best people, and the thought of them being hurt because of him made his insides do horribly unpleasant things. He swallowed as Micky continued, trying to push the urge to cry back down.

"You scared the hell out of us, man. First Mike yells that you're gonna get yourself eaten, then you almost _do_ get eaten by some kinda zombie dog thing, and you were sparking green all over, and then you go and…and…" His ministrations faltered, for which Peter was grateful, because Micky had been absently swiping at his nose through the entire rant even though Peter was certain it was now sand-free.

Peter had remembered something, though, and he lurched forward, trying to untangle himself from the blanket cocoon his friends had created for him. "Mike! Is he-"

"Davy's with him," Micky said quietly, neatly stopping Peter's attempts to leave his bed by sitting on the blonde's knees. "He's okay, we think. We debated calling the doctor, but-"

"No," Peter interrupted. "A doctor wouldn't help all that much, except maybe to give him some stitches. I have to check the bite, it could be…could be infected," he finished quietly, not meeting Micky's eyes.

His best friend sighed through his nose, fidgeting with the washcloth absently as he stared at Peter. This seemed to be everyone's favorite past-time these days - staring at Peter. Instead of Mike's assessing, contemplative gaze, though, Micky's eyes were sad.

"Pete," he started in the soft sort of voice he used when he was being unusually serious, "you and I, we've known each other for a long time, haven't we? We've been friends since you came to Cali, best friends, even…right?"

"Of course, Micky. You're absolutely my best friend."

Nodding, Micky's shoulder straightened. "Okay. So, what if I'd been keeping this huge secret from you, like a really huge secret. Say I…say I was hiding one of the biggest, most important parts of myself from you, and I was making up stories to keep it hidden, and never letting you in on it, even when my life could have been in danger. Even though I really knew I could trust you with anything, I still kept this huge secret from you. Don't you think that might make you feel kinda rotten?"

Peter frowned. This was one of those things Micky did sometimes, where he turned things around to make you see his point of view, whether you wanted to or not. Usually, it was a useful way for the drummer to make people understand how he felt about something without having to actually talk about his feelings. It was a trick he'd picked up from Mike, who liked to try to get points across in a vague, storytelling kind of way, usually involving a horse or a car or a old buddy he'd had in Texas. Mike's stories sometimes confused Peter, because they were awfully subtle, and sometimes unintelligible if Mike was especially nervous. Micky's scenarios, though, Peter always understood.

And Peter got it. He really did. He could tell that Micky was upset and hurt, and he could understand why, because he knew he'd feel the same if the situations were reversed. It just seemed like Micky was missing a vital bit of information.

"It's not like that, Micky."

"No?" Tossing the cloth onto the bedside table, Micky drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, not looking Peter in the eyes. "Seems like that to me."

"It isn't, though," Peter insisted, leaning forward as best he could with Micky sitting on his knees and gripping Micky's shoulder tightly. "It's not like that at all, because I was never hiding the most important parts. All this stuff, it's not important. It's not who I am, Micky, just what I am, like…like how I'm blonde and have hazel eyes. It doesn't change who I am."

Micky groaned, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands before regarding Peter solemnly. "You've been lying to us, Peter. This whole time. Didn't you think we'd believe you? Didn't you think we'd still be your friends, no matter what? I just…I don't get it, man. Why'd you have to lie?"

"It's not just my secret to tell, Micky," the bassist murmured, eyes pleading for Micky to understand. "It's not just me in this - there's a lot of us out there."

"A lot of _what_," Micky asked, frowning.

Peter flinched. He didn't like the way Micky was saying 'what' - now, and the way he'd said it before Peter had passed out. It was an awful sort of tone, and Peter was afraid. He was afraid that Micky would spend too much time focusing on that 'what', and forget about the 'who'. He didn't want to be a what, not to Micky, not to any of his friends. He wanted to be a 'who' to them. He wanted to be Peter.

"Look, Micky, it's not like I can just make you forget you'd seen anything, okay? I'll explain, I promise, but please can I go see Michael? I want to make sure his wound isn't…infected."

For a moment, he thought Micky might refuse, bundle him up even tighter, and sit on him until he spilled everything. The thought was almost certainly there, lurking in the drummer's eyes. Finally, though, he nodded, clambering up and helping Peter wriggle free.

"Easy now," Micky said, taking him by the wrist and pulling his arm up over Micky's slim shoulders. Peter didn't mention that he outweighed Micky by a decent amount, and would probably squash him flat if he fell on him. Micky was hurt enough as it was.

If Micky was hurt, Peter would bet money on Davy being beside himself, and probably a lot more vocal about it. The two of them were so similar sometimes, even as they were incredibly different.

When Peter had met Micky, the fast-talking Californian had been distant and mistrustful towards pretty much everyone. It had taken a while, and a lot of work, for a solid friendship to form. Micky was used to shady folks, cons, and lies, and even though most people could tell from the off that none of those things even remotely applied to Peter, it had taken months for him to work past Micky's knee-jerk assumption that everyone had an angle. Once he had, though, they had bonded beautifully. He had known that he could never prove Micky wrong, that he wasn't ever going to betray him, but Peter had promised himself that he would spend the rest of his life never, ever proving Micky right.

Just another promise he'd been too useless to keep, he supposed as Micky helped him shuffle out to the living room.

Mike had been laid out on the couch, head propped on one armrest, the tattered orange and purple quilt that Gran had sent them draped over him. Peter wondered if they'd chosen that blanket purposefully - it was a normal quilt, with nothing stitched into it but love, but Peter supposed that was more than enough. He hoped, though, that they didn't now associate all things Tork with magical healing abilities, because they would be sorely disappointed.

Davy was seated on the floor next to the couch, head resting against the arm, his gaze distant and worried. He looked up when they entered, taking care to not let his feelings show on his face. He didn't do a very good job of it, though, and the tired, sad eyes that locked with Peter's made the blonde feel lower than low.

"He won't wake up," the Brit whispered helplessly.

Slipping away from Micky's grasp, Peter moved to stand at Mike's head. He gazed down at his unconscious friend, who looked far more at ease than Peter would have expected. Had he gotten all traces of the ghoul out of Mike? Had he pieced the bones back together properly? Healing wasn't his forte, after all. Bones weren't all that hard - it was like doing a puzzle, angry edge to angry edge until it all slotted together. He worried, though, that he might have somehow melted the whole joint together, or put it together backwards, or forgotten something. What if Mike lost the use of that arm? How would he play guitar? How would the Texan live with that? How would Peter?

"Peter," Davy said softly, fingers curling around the shaman's wrist. "Peter, you have to explain this to us. We have to know what's going on."

Looking back down at his diminutive friend, Peter winced.

Davy looked hurt all right, and angry. He was soft-hearted, even more so than Peter was, and he felt everything twice as hard as the rest of them. Sometimes, Peter wondered if maybe it was because all that emotion was packed into a tighter space, and so it got concentrated.

Davy and Mike had tumbled in Peter's life at about the same time. They'd been friends for about as long as Peter and Micky had, and were just as inseparable. The four of them had all bonded in different and wonderful ways - Peter privately thought Micky's idolisation of Mike was one of his favorite things to observe - but Davy and Mike's relationship was one of the strongest Peter knew. He supposed it was because of how stubborn the two of them were. Capricorns, and all that.

Peter had taken quite a shine to Davy from the start - of the three of his friends, Davy was the least likely to make Peter feel slow and stupid. He was always patient with Peter, no matter how much he messed up, and he did everything he could to help the blonde out whenever he needed it, whether Peter asked for help or not. He was never condescending about it, either. Davy was nice.

It seemed like such a horrible word, but it was the only one that fit. Davy was a nice person, with a deep well of compassion and unbreakable loyalty to the people he loved. And now, like a fool, Peter had thrown that back in his face. However angry Davy was at him in that moment, he definitely deserved it.

Leaning over, Peter lifted the quilt and inspected Mike's bandage. He prodded at it gently, running his fingers under the edges, and felt around Mike's aura. As expected, it was muted. Mike would no doubt be unconscious for quite some time. He prodded a bit further, but if there were traces of ghoul within Mike's aura, they were imperceptibly small.

Peter wondered if he should worry about that. He wondered why he hadn't made an effort to learn more about healing. He wondered why he was letting everyone down so much lately.

_That's useless thinking, Peter_, his Gran was chiding him in his memory. _Don't worry so much about what you did or didn't do. Focus on what you can do now._

Squaring his shoulders, he pulled the quilt back up over Mike and moved to perch on the other arm of the couch.

"Hey, aren't you going to do that healing thing?" Davy asked, brow furrowed.

Peter shook his head. "No. I'm not a healer."

"You did all right on the beach."

"That was kind of an emergency situation," the shaman explained, fiddling with the collar of his pajamas. They were a bit worse for wear, but they would survive.

Davy stood up, drawing Peter's attention away from the state of his nightclothes. "Peter, Mike is unconscious with great bleedin' holes in his arm, how much more of an emergency do you need before you do something about it?"

"Lay off him, Davy," Micky murmured from his seat in the armchair. "We don't know what's going on here, okay? If he's not patching Mike up, I'm sure there's a reason, right, Pete?"

He didn't like looking into Micky's hopeful eyes, didn't like seeing the pleading written across Davy's face. He hunched his shoulders, curling in on himself.

"I wish I could. I mean, I really wish I had that kind of skill, but…healing bones is one thing, but the rest? I mean, there's veins and arteries and tendons and nerves and…I could really end up hurting him if I do it wrong, you know?"

There was a slight pause, before Davy said in a low, warning tone. "I want to know what's going on here, Peter. Now." When Peter hesitated, his British friend strode forward and poked him in the chest. "Whatever's going on with you, it's dangerous, and it could have gotten you killed. It almost got Mike and Micky killed. Your secret is hurting people, Peter, including you, and I have to know what it is if I'm going to help keep you guys safe."

"Okay, Davy," he said, folding his hands in his lap and taking a deep breath. "I'm a shaman."

Micky and Davy continued to stare, nonplussed.

Peter blushed. "It's, uh…it's a type of mystic, along the same lines as healers and psychics and things."

"Like witches," Micky hypothesized.

"Uh, no," replied Peter, lips twitching at the corners. "Of course not. Absolutely two different branches of the occult. Shamans don't use magic, you see."

Snorting, Davy shook his head. "Peter…you grew a tree."

"Oh, that's easy - basically, you just have to pull together the elements that make up trees, and you bind them together with natural energy, and then you just kind of push until they're all grown," he explained with a smile.

"You just…make a tree. Out of nothing."

Micky shook his head. "You can't make something out of nothing, Davy."

"Says who?"

"Says physics."

Before Davy could retort, Peter held up both hands. "Hey, come on, guys, don't fight, okay? But Micky's kinda right, Davy." He cast the Brit an apologetic glance. "I mean, I'm not just making trees out of nothing - I'm making them out of earth and air and water and things."

"Can you unmake them?" Davy asked curiously.

Peter shivered a bit. "I'm…not sure what you mean by that."

"I mean, if you can take all those little bits and make trees out of them, can you take trees to bits?"

Blinking, Peter opened and closed him mouth a few times. "I don't…why would I want to do that?"

"If you could," Davy pressed on, eyes flashing fire, "then you could take things like that wolf-creature apart, turn them to dust, like."

"N-no, I-"

"I mean, if you can do one, you must be able to do the other." Davy was pacing now. "So why didn't you?"

Peter gaped at his younger friend. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Micky frowning, but he wasn't sure what at. Was he wondering the same things as Davy? Or was he, like Peter, suddenly very worried?

Because he knew. He knew he couldn't do that, just take a living thing and scatter it to the wind. He couldn't even think it, because as soon as you started thinking it, you started finding reasons everywhere - reasons it would be a good idea, reasons it would be okay, reasons it would be _right_. That's how you fell into the light or the dark, Gran had explained. You started _thinking_.

But he wasn't sure he could ever explain that to Davy, explain why not being able to do something wasn't the same as not having the ability, and that not being able was really the most important thing in the world. He wasn't sure, as he watched Davy pace restlessly, that his friend would understand.

So instead, he said simply. "No. I can't do that. It doesn't work like that."

It was true enough, he supposed, so it wasn't like a lie. It would just have to do.

Davy's shoulders slumped a bit. "That'd just be too easy, I suppose."

Peter cocked his head to the side and considered that statement, then nodded. "Yes. It'd be much too easy."

He was fairly certain, though, that they didn't mean the same thing.

"So, back in your room," Micky started, "you said there were a lot of you. Are they all like you, trees popping up and birds dying in people's shoes?"

"Um…well…no. See, I'm a gray shaman, sometimes called a green shaman. We're kinda…Gran calls us neutral parties. We keep the balance, stop people fighting, that sort of thing. We tend to be a lot more in tune with woody and watery things. There are light and dark shamans, too, but they're not really as laid back as gray shamans."

Davy was frowning at him again. "So…wait, you're not a 'light shaman'?"

"No," Peter replied softly, and there must have been something showing on his face, because Davy flinched a bit and didn't push any further on that subject.

"Okay," Micky said. "I get all that. But can we get to the part where things are kicking it in our house and there are werewolves trying to eat us?"

"Ghouls," the blonde corrected absently, gaze slipping to their unconscious friend. "That was a ghoul. They're not very personable."

"No kidding? I was gonna suggest we invite a few around for dinner," Micky snarked.

Peter understood the sarcasm, but he answered anyway. "Well, I don't think that would be a good idea, Micky, because they eat human flesh."

"Yeah, we noticed," their tambourinist muttered.

"Usually they stick to cemeteries and mausoleums - they like dead bodies best. They'll eat live people, too, though. They're always starving," he continued sadly, ignoring the greenish cast of his friends' faces. "No matter how much they eat, they're always mad with hunger. It's probably not a nice way to live."

Micky huffed a laugh. "Are you kidding? We live like that every day."

"No, it's worse than that. Imagine if it was, like, a hundred-million times stronger, so strong you couldn't think about anything else." Peter thought again of the creature he'd murdered, and he wrapped his arms around himself. "They can't really help it; they're just really hungry."

Davy reached out and wrapped his own arms around Peter, hugging him tightly. "Sometimes I think you care a bit too much," he whispered into the bassist's hair.

Pulling away, Peter tried to smile brightly. "I'm okay," he lied. "And Michael's okay, too, so you know."

The change in subject didn't go unnoticed by either of his friends, but they seemed content to let it go, so Peter continued.

"See, when he was bitten, he contracted a sort of…well, Gran calls it shifty juju, but really it's just bad energy. People don't usually survive encounters with ghouls, but when they do, something of the ghoul gets left behind."

"Uh, Mike's not gonna start trying to chew on us or anything, is he?" Micky asked cautiously, shrugging helplessly when Davy shot him a glare.

Peter's mouth twitched into a more genuine smile. "No, I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" Davy pressed his fingertips against his eyelids. "Peter…"

"Well, I've never had to heal a ghoul-bite. I think I got all the shifty juju outta him, and while I was doing that the bones kinda just got stuck back together, but I passed out before I could check to make sure. If there is anything left," he added quickly at their horrified expressions, "it's really, really tiny and probably won't have any effect."

"Probably?"

"Well…he might be really hungry for a couple of days? Eat more meat? Order his steaks rare?" Peter shrugged. "I can't really say. He'll be out for a while, though. Healing takes a lot of energy from both parties, ya know."

"Great." Flopping into a spare chair, Davy threw one arm over his eyes. "So you're really the epitome of a tree-hugging hippie, Mike might have ghoul cooties, and we're gonna have to deal with things dying left and right from now on."

"Um, well, no." Peter fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves. "See, those weren't normal shaman-y things. They were omens. Bad ones. Predicting-your-doom kind of bad."

"Warning you about the ghoul?"

"I don't think so. I think the ghoul might have been part of it, but that's not nearly bad enough to account for all the death omens. I mean, for that level of shifty juju to be hanging around, something big has to be coming."

Micky ran his hands through his hair, tugging a bit as he tended to do when thinking. "Bigger than a ghoul?"

"Yes, and I think it's about time I found out what it was."

"And just how do you plan on doing that?"

Peter smiled. "I'm going to call my Gran."

A/N - So…yeah. A bit of my Micky/Peter/Davy/Mike Monkee Meetings headcanon there, which is, I think, fairly universally shared. And angst. And Davy being a bit frightening. And oh, Mike's okay…probably.


	5. The Omen In The Oak

Chapter Four: The Omen In The Oak

"I had a feeling I'd be hearing from you," Gran said before he could even get out a greeting.

Peter smiled despite himself, shifting so that the phone was wedged between his ear and shoulder and closing the bedroom door. He knew that Micky and Davy were annoyed at his secrecy, but this was definitely something he wanted to talk to Gran about without any eavesdroppers.

"This isn't the time for more secrets," Davy had argued, Micky just shaking his head sadly behind him. If Davy's fiery temper had hurt Peter, it was nothing to the quiet, sad acceptance Micky had displayed, like he'd given in. Like he'd given up.

Given up on Peter.

"It's not keeping secrets, Davy," Peter had pleaded. "I always give you alone time when you call home, right? It's the same thing. I promise, I'll tell you all about it, okay? I just…this isn't secret, Davy, it's just private, okay? Please?"

He'd given Davy the task of cleaning Mike's wound and changing the bandage, giving him very detailed instructions and telling him to take it slow to avoid doing further damage. It wasn't a trick, it needed to be done, but it would also keep the Brit away from the bedroom while Peter made his call.

He'd then looked to Micky, trying to think of a task to give him, and found the curly-haired man watching him with calculating eyes. "I'll put some soup on," he'd said flatly, and Peter knew he knew. He didn't understand, maybe, and he definitely didn't like it, but he would let Peter have his space. Peter had always felt that their friendship was tough as nails, but this show of consideration still touched him, and once again he was struck by how much he loved his friends, and how much he hated keeping them out of things.

He had to protect them, though, and that was worth whatever price fate demanded of him.

"Gran, what's going on?"

"Why don't you tell me what's been going on with you?" she deflected. "I haven't heard from you in a month, Sunshine, I was starting to worry."

"Gran…" Peter sighed. It was always like this when he called; she simply refused to talk until she'd heard every tiny detail about his life since he'd last called, up to and including whether or not he'd been eating his vegetables. He didn't have time for that now, though, so he decided to summarize.

"Well, there was an opening for a house band at a local club, and we got that gig, so we've had pretty steady income the last week or so, and Davy's had about seven different girlfriends since my last call, and all this bad energy has just been hanging around, I grew two trees, Gran, two of them, and just yesterday we were flooded with creepy omens like dead sparrows, and an owl stared at Davy, which has me worried, because ever since the ghoul bit Mike he's been really hotheaded - Davy, not Mike, Mike's unconscious - and I'm afraid he might do something rash, and speaking of Mike, I'm not sure I got all the ghoul out of him, so he might wake up craving raw steaks or raw people or something, and if he turns into a cannibalistic serial killer it'll be my fault, and Micky's not even looking me in the eye anymore because he's mad at me for not telling him about being a shaman, and we're all out of milk. I really, really need a glass of milk, Gran."

His grandmother huffed an amused sigh that crackled over the line. Peter didn't see what was so amusing about his troubles, but Gran had always been somewhat laid-back about things. He thought she and Micky would probably get along very well - they had a similar 'if I laugh at it maybe it can't hurt me as badly' mentality. He didn't know how much good that would do anyone this time, though - it was going to hurt, no matter how much they laughed.

"Gran," he insisted, "please. Just tell me what's going on."

"Well, first of all, you get a healer in to look after young Michael. I know you, and I know you wouldn't heal him any more than you had to, to keep him out of danger, and you're not exactly an expert at it. Get someone you trust to probe deep, make sure you got all you could out."

"Of course." He didn't know any healers, especially any close enough to help, so how was he supposed to manage that?

"You keep an eye on the little one, Peter. He's probably scared half out of his wits, and I'm not surprised he's turned it to anger. It'll feel more productive than fear. You don't let him go off on his own, don't let him try to push his nose into this. Anger makes people reckless, and with a death omen hanging over him, he's an accident waiting to happen."

"Yes, Gran." He'd known that already, but Davy wasn't exactly the kind of guy one could keep locked up for his own good. He couldn't tell Gran that, though - she'd only sigh at him again.

"As to Micky…well, I haven't met the boy, but he seems like a good friend. He'll understand why you've kept this a secret, and once he gets over his 'I'm so hurt you didn't trust me' melodrama, the two of you will surely be the closer for it. I know you feel he's your best friend, and if that's true, everything will work out."

Peter wasn't sure how to reply to that. Even as he feared he'd done their friendship too much damage, he hoped that Gran was right. She was the wisest person Peter knew, even wiser than Mike, and she was nearly always right.

There was a moment of silence before Gran spoke again.

"They're in California, Peter."

It felt, for a moment, like the floor had fallen away beneath him, and Peter swayed where he stood. Ice cold horror flooded him, shivering up his back uncomfortably.

"Why," he choked.

"Why do you think, Sunshine? They're there for you. You know they've been wanting to get you to choose sides for a while now."

"No," Peter moaned. "No, no, no!"

"Peter…Peter, you have to deal with this."

"No!" Sitting on the edge of his bed, Peter dropped his head into his hand. "I don't want them here, Gran. I don't want anything to do with them, and they know it. They destroyed everything, Gran. They took away my family. Our family. They ruin everything they touch. Don't you remember last time? Everything we lost?"

"I remember."

"And I've got new family members now, brothers, the best friends I've ever had, and they're gonna ruin that, too! They don't know how to do anything else!"

"Be that as it may, you have to deal with it. You have to make a decision here, Peter."

"I _can't_," Peter whispered brokenly.

"Peter-"

"This is too much, Gran," he continued, trying to breathe past the sobs welling up in his chest. "It's too much. Can't you come out to Malibu? Won't you help?"

"Life isn't about what's easy, Peter," Gran said sternly, but not unkindly, "and I can't always be there to hold your hand."

"But this...Gran, you can't ask me to do this. I can't take sides-"

"You're not meant to take sides. You never were. Living in the middle is a choice for most people, but not for you. You were born in shades of gray, and you'll die in shades of gray. It's who you are."

Peter bowed his head. "I don't know what to do, Gran."

"Yes," she replied firmly, her voice sounding unimaginably old, even over the phone, "you do."

"Then I don't know if I can do it."

There was a long silence during which Peter imagined a million encouraging words that would magically help.

Then Gran sighed. "I don't know if you can either."

There wasn't much to say after that, so with a final 'I love you' and a melancholy 'goodbye', Peter hung up.

Davy was tucking the quilt in around Mike gently when Peter walked back in, and when he looked up, it seemed as though all the youngest Monkee's anger had evaporated. Peter looked over to the kitchen, but Micky wasn't looking at him - he was staring into the depths of a stock pot, stirring something that smelled infinitely better than anything Peter could have cobbled together.

Sighing, Peter shuffled over to the table and sat down, gesturing for Davy to join them. Their English friend seemed reluctant to leave Mike's side, but with a final clasp of the Texan's hand, he made his way over and slid into the chair opposite Peter.

"Well?"

Peter stared at the table. "It's…really not good."

"Not good as in, broken-guitar-string not good, or we're-all-going-to-die-horribly not good," Micky interjected, the levity somewhat missing from his voice. He still refused to turn around, but his stirring had slowed, and Peter knew he was paying close attention.

"Somewhere in between," Peter guessed, "but probably closer to the second one."

"Fantastic." Letting the spoon fall into the pot with a clatter, Micky finally turned around. "You know something, Pete? When we met, I coulda sworn that you wouldn't be able to keep a secret to save your life. Funny how it turned out that you keeping secrets could have ended it."

"Micky-"

"Whatever, man. The past is the past, right?" Leveling a frighteningly serious look at Peter, Micky shook a finger in his face. "You promise me right now, though, Peter Tork, that you won't be keeping any more. I don't want to wake up one morning to find out you got eaten by gremlins or something."

"That's not what gremlins-"

"Peter."

Looking from one to the other, Peter offered his friends as much of a smile as he could muster up. "I promise I won't lie to you guys about anything ever again."

Davy's eyebrows rose, and Micky shook his head, going back to the stock pot. "Not what I said, babe. Not what I said at all."

Leaning back in his chair, Peter picked at the wood grain of the table. Deep inside, slow and still and having nearly forgotten itself, under layers of varnish and stain, he could feel something, something left of the tree it used to be. It was tiny, frail, and wispy, like a kitten's mewl. It wasn't the strength of his oaks or the familiarity of his hawthorns, but it was something, and he drew comfort from it.

"Their names," he started, "are Ellis and Lydia."

He could feel his friends' eyes on him, and he hunched his shoulders inward.

"Ellis and Lydia," Micky murmured. "Are they shamans?"

"Yes. A dark and a light shaman, respectively. They've been fighting for as long as they've known each other, trying to best each other, trying to gain control for the light or the dark. They're very powerful," he explained, pressing his palms against the tabletop to still their shaking. "If one or the other won, it would seriously tip the balance towards either light or dark, and that would be a bad thing."

"Why?"

Glancing up at Davy, Peter frowned. "What do you mean?"

Folding his arms across his chest, Davy leaned back, as well. "Wouldn't it be a good thing if the light won?"

Peter shook his head. "That's not how it works, Davy. There is no winning, you know? Just a lot of fighting, and as soon as one side gains ground, the other side just starts fighting harder. It get's dirtier, and crueler, and innocent people get hurt." Bowing his head, he admitted, "My family was torn apart by these two. It's all gone now - all I have left is Gran, all because of their stupid war."

"Aw, Peter…" Sliding a chair over next to the blonde, Micky sat down and clasped Peter's shoulder. "I'm real sorry."

Unable to trust his voice, Peter merely shook his head.

The three of them sat in silence for a moment; Micky, arm slung across Peter's shoulders comfortingly - Davy, chin in hand, watching Mike contemplatively - Peter, resisting the urge to burst into tears and hide under the table until it was all over. Then, with a great, exasperated exhalation, Davy stirred.

"Right, then," he said, "what do we do about them?"

"Nothing," Peter nearly shouted, jerking up in his seat in alarm. "Davy, you can't get in the middle of this, they'll really hurt you guys!"

"I don't like how you're not including yourself in the not-getting-in-the-middle thing." Tilting his head until he caught Peter's eye, Micky narrowed his eyes. "If you're staying out of it, we will, too, but if you're thinking about wandering between these two characters, there's no way you're doing it without us."

"Guys-"

"And that's not negotiable," Davy added with a determined nod.

"But-"

"So I you're planning on doing something, we have to know about it, and you have to let us help."

Groaning, Peter ran his hands through his hair. "I can't-"

"And if the plan is to hole up here until it blows over, then that's what we'll do."

"And if you even think about sneaking off without us," Micky warned, gesturing with his spoon as he went back to the stove, "we'll sit on you until you change your mind."

Peter had no doubt they would, but he knew better than to think that Ellis and Lydia would just go away. They were in Malibu to sightsee, after all. They were there for him, and he knew that if he didn't go to them, they would certainly come to him. He shuddered at the thought of either of them being near his friends.

But he'd promised not to lie to them anymore, mere minutes ago. He'd said he wouldn't, and that meant he couldn't.

Instead, he just shook his head. "I haven't decided what to do yet." Absolutely the truth. "We could get out of this without having to deal with either of them." Strictly speaking, they might be able to…if they moved suddenly, or died without warning before the two shamans could get to them. "And if not…well, we'll figure that out, I guess."

Davy and Micky watched him carefully for a long moment before they nodded in tandem, apparently satisfied with his non-answer.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Neither Davy nor Micky seemed inclined to bring up the current situation, and Peter was too lost in thought to try to make conversation. Several times, one of them would glance over at Mike as though hoping he'd miraculously woken up, but he continued to sleep deeply, recharging as best he could.

Peter really wished he would wake up so the shaman could ask him what to do. Mike always knew what to do.

Davy insisted on sleeping in the armchair so he could keep an eye on Mike, even though Peter had tried to explain that Mike would be fine, that he was just gaining back his energy. He gave up after a while, secretly relieved that someone would be keeping watch.

He watched Davy settle into the chair, listened to Micky trudge up the stairs to his own bed, and when he was certain they were both asleep, he slipped out of the house. Rounding the property, he checked and rechecked his wards and barriers, building them up. Ellis and Lydia knew where he was, so making the Pad light up like a beacon wasn't a concern for him so much as giving it the best defense he could was. It wasn't much - it probably wouldn't keep them out at all - but it made him feel a bit better about letting his guard down enough to sleep.

When he was awoken again, he thought for a moment that it must have been them crossing into his territory. No one was shouting, though, no one had burst into his room and tried to drag him away, so after a tense moment, he relaxed enough to roll out of bed and investigate.

He quickly found the source of his discomfort. Someone had crossed his barrier, all right. With a sigh, he picked up the bunched up quilt and tossed it back onto the couch.

Michael was gone.

A glance at the armchair confirmed that Davy, too, was missing. Quietly, so as not to wake Micky, Peter slunk upstairs and peered into the drummer's room. He breathed a small sigh of relief when he spotted the man, curled up on his side and breathing deeply. So, it was just Davy and Mike, then.

It wasn't long before he found Davy, though, because he spotted the smaller man as he rounded the Pad, leaning back against one of Peter's oak, staring up at the stars and deep in thought.

"Davy? Davy, where's Mike?"

"What?" Jerking his gaze down to Peter, Davy pushed away from the tree, alarm written across his face. "What do you mean, where's Mike? He's on the couch, right where he's been since we carried him home." As Peter shook his head slowly, he could see panic gripping Davy tightly. "What…what could have…"

Davy pelted around the corner and up the stairs to the balcony, slamming through the door and stumbling to a stop in front of the couch.

"Peter…"

Standing just behind his friend, Peter clenched his fists.

"I don't know, Davy."

"Peter, he's gone."

"Yeah. That one I knew."

Davy looked back at Peter, helpless terror flashing in his eyes, and Peter could only shake his head.

Michael was gone, and Peter had no idea what to do.

A/N - Uh-oh. That doesn't bode well.


	6. The Sweat-Sting Of Fevered Minds

Chapter Five: The Sweat-Sting Of Fevered Minds

"We need to split up."

Davy and Micky looked at him like he was nuts, the wan light of the dawn casting shadows over their faces.

"Split up?" Shaking his head, Davy snorted. "Peter, that's got to be the worst idea I've ever heard, and we live with Micky."

"Hey!"

"I know it sounds dumb," Peter insisted, "but we don't have time to go together - we need to make our search area as wide as possible, okay? We have to find Mike, before something bad happens to him." Or to someone else, he added in his head.

He had been stupid to fall asleep, stupid to lower his guard. That bite could have had any number of effects on Mike's mental state - he could be wandering around lost, he could be digging up graves, he could be chewing on some poor innocent bystander-

"Look," he said firmly, "I know it's probably dangerous, but it's the only option we have, okay? We have to check cemeteries-"

"Cemeteries?" Micky frowned, but his confusion soon melted into a strange mix of panic and disgust. "Oh, god, you don't think he-"

"I don't know, Micky," the shaman interrupted. "That's the problem. I just don't know."

"Right." Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Micky then scrubbed his fingers through his hair restlessly. "Right. Okay. This is what we're gonna do. Davy, I want you to go around to all the hospitals and ask around. If something's happened to him, or if he was wandering around and got picked up, he'd probably have ended up there. Someone'll remember a mile-high Texan with a chunk out of his shoulder. When you're done with that, take a…take a drive by the closest cemeteries."

Davy nodded, sprinting to his room for his coat.

"Peter." Micky turned serious eyes on the blonde, and Peter swallowed nervously. "Is there any way you can use your shaman-y abilities to locate him?"

Nibbling on his lower lip, Peter considered the question. "Well…it would take a bit of time to get started, and I could only go so far. If he's outside my range, I won't be able to feel him out."

"Okay, get a start on that, see if you can locate him. If not, well…" Sighing, Micky ran a hand through his hair again. Peter privately thought that it was starting to look as tangled as a bramble, but he figured just then wasn't the time to be discussing hair care. "Look," Micky continued, breaking Peter from his thoughts, "is it likely at all that those two, Ellis and Lydia…I mean, could they have taken Mike?"

Peter shook his head. "No. Mike left on his own, I know that much. If they'd gotten within ten feet of the Pad, I would have felt it."

A bit of tension seemed to leak out of Micky at that. "Okay. Good. While you're doing that, then, I'm gonna start a circular search pattern, see if I can't at least pick up a trail or something. I mean, really, he's kind of noticeable…surely someone will have spotted him."

Peter nodded.

Davy, wandering back in with his coat draped over one shoulder, regarded Peter as seriously as Micky had. "You're gonna track him down, Peter…right?"

Fear slithered icily into his stomach and curled up there, seeming content to take up residence. "Um…I'll do everything I can, Davy, but-"

"That's all we need," Davy replied, grasping Peter's shoulder tightly. "Just do your best, Peter. We can't expect any more than that."

He still felt horrible and alone when they were gone, though. He knew they believed he was more powerful than he actually was. They trusted him to be able to accomplish things he could never do, not in a million years. What would happen when they realized their mistake? How much would they hate him when he let them down? Or would it be par-for-the-course to them? Foolish Peter, always failing, never coming through for anyone.

Sighing, he went to grab his trunk from his room, dragging it out to the bandstand. It took a while to clear the platform of instruments, but it was the ideal place for what he had planned.

He fetched their portable fire pit from the balcony. It had been his own, brought from home. They'd mostly used it for toasting marshmallows until now, although sometimes Peter would accidentally-on-purpose drop a few of the precious treats into the fire as an offering. He could never be sure it counted, though, and after the last time he'd done it, Mike had insisted on toasting Peter's marshmallows for him - they weren't cheap.

Setting the empty pit in the middle of the bandstand, Peter dug around in his trunk. Pulling out a few herbs, he tossed them into the pit. The right smells, Gran had taught him, triggered parts of the brain you didn't even normally use. Althea, wormwood, and sweet grass would be best in this case - they stood for protection, psychic powers, and the calling of spirits. Shoving the trunk back and off of the bandstand, Peter did a quick test of the barriers outside the Pad. Then, breathing in deeply, he wandered a loose circle around the platform.

He gathered the ambient energy of the room - traces of his friends, of himself, of their comings and goings - swirls of frenetic motion, great sweeping whorls of paths they took and didn't take - imprints of feelings felt and words spoken. Gathering it to himself, he wound it, spun it tight, and wove it into a barrier. He tread slowly, hands moving automatically as he worked, shaping and stretching the barrier around and up and around again until it domed over the platform, vibrating brightly in his mind's eye. He tested it gently, satisfied with the fuzzy thickness of it, the way it prickled up his fingers when he brushed against it.

Not impenetrable - no barrier was if the attacker was strong enough - but it would do. Now he was very certain that no one could approach without his knowledge, no matter how deep into meditation he sank.

Moving back to the fire pit, Peter reached in and pressed his fingers to the crumbly herbs inside. It took only a fraction of a breath and a rough grind of energy to set them to smoldering, and a breath more to draw the sparks into a blaze. Nodding to himself, Peter arranged himself comfortably in front of the pit and, with a sigh, let everything but the flame slip away.

Mike, he told himself. Reach out for Mike.

The smoky scent of the burning herbs settles in Peter's sinuses as he breathed deeply. He let the dancing tongues of the fire sweep away all thoughts of failure and all of his fear. He swayed a bit, mimicking the motion of the flames unconsciously as he stretched his aura out.

It crept along the floor, millimeter by millimeter, through the walls of his home, out across the sand, across the neighborhood, across Los Angeles. It rippled and slid into homes and shops. It touched everything, every particle of life lighting up dimly - earthy-scented trees and the tiny fluttery pulse of birds, and people. People everywhere, searing bright in colorless rainbows of energy. He could feel Davy, blazing hot and frantic and angry. He could feel Micky, erratic and sparking fear from his center. He surrounded them for a moment, soothing where he could, before moving on and letting them slip from his grasp.

He found squirrels and ants and the constant, reassuring back-and-forth of the ocean. He found creeping vines and bursts of wildflowers. And always, everywhere, there were people.

And none of them were Mike.

Further, he felt, not really a thought so much as a deep nudge. Reach further.

Hot tingles like an electric shock burst at the base of his skull, racing down his spine and up into his mind and pooling at his eyes. He shut them, shut out the fire, and everything, every bit of himself that he has pushed out, snapped back like a broken rubber band. A non-sound like the opposite of a tree being hit by lightning rang in his head.

Shuddering violently, Peter struggled to take a breath. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes.

Lydia smiled at him. "Hello, Peter. It's been a long time."

Her voice sounded as light and breezy as it had the last time he'd heard it, on the worst day of his life, but her face looked very different. She smiled at him, blue eyes bright, sunny-gold hair rippling as she shook her head.

"You've gotten so tall…and so very strong, Peter. Stronger than I'd ever imagined you would."

Peter shook his head mutely, unable to speak past the tightness in his throat. A sound behind him made him tense further, and he watched the genial smile on Lydia's face melt into a twisted look of rage.

Yes, that was more like the way he remembered her, he thought as he carefully turned so he had a shoulder to her, and one to the newcomer behind him.

Brushing his dark brown hair up away from his equally-dark eyes, Ellis offered Lydia a condescending sneer. "You never did have the kind of faith in him that I did, you weak-willed bitch."

As Lydia outright growled, Peter felt his insides freeze up. His hands clenched into fists, and he backed up slightly, doing his best to get out from in between them. Not here, he begged the Powers That Be. Please, not here, not in my home. I've worked so hard to build a new family. Please, don't let them destroy that, too.

"He belongs with me, Ellis! He could do so much good in the world!"

"The hell you say! You were never concerned with good, it was only ever about control with you!"

"Oh, ho, look who's talking!"

"Peter," Ellis said insistently, dragging Peter out of his desperate prayers. "Peter, come with me. I know how you handled my ghoul, I know how powerful you are. We'll be the mightiest team, we'll set the world right." He stepped over the second barrier, sending more sickly shocks into Peter's already-muddled brain.

Lydia copied him, clasping her hands in front of her as though begging. "Don't listen to him, Peter. He only wants blood and pain. He can only teach you to destroy - I can teach you so much more."

Shaking his head mutely, Peter backed away still further.

As on the beach, several things happened at once.

In his efforts to get away, Peter stepped a bit too far, and now teetered on the edge of the bandstand. With a great cry, Ellis lunged forward, eyes intent, fingers leaving trails of sickly green fumes as he reached for the frightened shaman. Lydia, seeing Ellis making his move, screamed furiously and lunged at him.

Ellis bared his teeth and, reaching out, pushed both Peter and Lydia back and through the picture window with a concussive wave of power.

The impact with the balcony railing knocked breath and sense from Peter. He arched and gasped as dull pain vibrated his joints. Dimly, he was aware of the sound of Lydia crashing into the dunes below. He spared her only a moment's thought as he struggled to his knees, shards of glass tumbling from his shoulders in a sharp, brilliant rain.

"Peter…I don't want to hurt you," Ellis said softly as he stepped delicately over the shattered windowpane, footsteps crunching ominously. His fingers were still smoking green, and he stopped a few feet from the shaking blonde. "I really don't. But if you don't come with me willingly, I will take you by force."

Peter could only shake his head.

Ellis sighed. "Very well." He reached for Peter's face. "It really is for the best, kiddo," he said casually.

Squeezing his eyes shut as he had when the ghoul had prepared its attack, Peter waited for the pain. And, as with the ghoul, it never came.

"_Peter!_"

Eyes flashing open, Peter watched in horror as Micky vaulted up the steps and, without hesitation, threw himself between Peter and Ellis.

In an instant, the green fumes seemed to seep through Micky's skin. The thin man went very pale, eyes wide and pained, and with a shuddering gasp, he sank to his knees. Ellis didn't release him, though his eyes were as wide and bewildered as Micky's, and Peter could just _feel_ the ugly sickness writhing under Micky's skin.

Exhausted, it was all Peter could do to crawl over the glass towards the pair. Pain spiked up his bleeding palms, and his arms gave out, sending him crashing on his side to the balcony floor. He stretched out one hand to Micky, tears pricking his eyes.

Then there were more running feet, and through his tears, Peter watched as Davy slid to a stop behind Ellis and, with a great cry of, "get the_ fuck_ off of him," swung the trusty iron poker around like a golf club, hitting Ellis square in the jaw and knocking him away from his victim.

Summoning the last of his strength, Peter lurched to his knees and held out his hands. He wasn't sure what he could do, if anything, to protect his friends, but if he had to kill himself to do it, he would.

And that was, perhaps, what Ellis was seeing in Peter's eyes, because he backed away and, with a final, meaningful look at Peter, vanished.

Davy ran to Peter, letting the poker fall from his fingertips, but the blonde held up his hands again, "Lydia," he rasped, glancing over towards the beach.

But Davy just shook his head. "She scarpered just as I got here. Now shut up and let me help you." Reaching out, Davy placed his hands on either side of Peter's face and let his eyes slide shut.

Peter stared.

After a long moment, Davy peeked at his friend with one eyes. "Well? Go to it."

"Go to…what?"

Rolling both eyes, Davy shook his head in exasperation. "You said you needed energy to heal, right? Well, Micky obviously needs healing, badly, and so do you. And from the looks of it, you're well out. So borrow from me."

"What? Davy, no, I-"

Behind them, Micky rasped in a labored breath, limbs twitching, and Peter let his own eyes slide shut. "Just…stay still."

It was an effort just to reach out that tiny distance, but as soon as he started to weave the ends of their auras together, it began to get easier, until Peter had pulled enough of Davy's strength to manage. It was unfamiliar energy, not like pulling from the trees and the air and the water. It was white-hot and filled Peter's mouth with the taste of copper and pepper. It itched oddly in his skin, but at the same time, it invigorated him.

He opened his eyes, reaching out to steady Davy as the smaller man swayed alarmingly. "Sorry. Sorry, I might have taken too much."

"No," Davy mumbled, blinking the fuzz from the edges of his vision. "No, whatever you need, Peter." Then he grinned. "You can return it later. With interest."

Somehow, in spite of everything, Peter managed to huff a laugh. With a groan, he stood and hurried to Micky's side. His friend was shaking violently, wracked by sharp pains and raging fever. He watched them through narrowed eyes, seeing and yet not seeing, and Peter let out a shaky breath.

"What'd Ellis do to him," Davy whispered as he tottered after the blonde.

"He made him sick," Peter replied, pressing his still-bleeding palm to Micky's cheek. "Soul-sick. It's not a pleasant way to go."

"So, he was trying to_ kill_ Micky?"

Peter felt guilt twist bitterly in his gut. "No, he was trying to subdue me. Micky just got in the way, and Ellis pushed it a bit further, probably because he was so shocked." Peter could relate - he could have sworn that when he'd seen Ellis touch Micky with that twisted energy, his heart had stopped.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Peter leaned down and grasped Micky by the elbows, swinging him as gently as he could up onto his back and levering himself to his feet, Micky's arms drawn firmly around the shaman's shoulders like a scarf. Then, balancing the half-unconscious man carefully, Peter reached down and grasped Micky's thighs, holding him in place as best he could. He glanced at Davy as a thought occurred to him.

"Uh, Davy?"

"Yeah?"

The blonde hefted Micky a bit higher on his back as Davy yanked the back door open. "For future reference," he grunted, maneuvering through the doorway with minimal instances of banging Micky's head against it, "iron doesn't work on shamans."

As he settled Micky onto the couch, be became aware of Davy staring at him blankly.

"Peter," the smaller man began conversationally, "I don't care if they're a shaman, a ghoul, a vampire, or fucking Bigfoot, if you want to stop someone doing something, I guarantee you that an iron bar to the face works beautifully."

Peter paused, considering this. "Well…yeah, fair enough."

The managed to get Micky to the couch, which had more than served them well in the past few days. Davy had insisted that Peter run his hands under warm water and wrap them before he'd let him get to work on Micky, and Peter complied only because he knew that the stubborn look on Davy's face meant he wasn't going to give in on the issue. He needed to get to Micky, needed to trace the sickness and pull it out before it spread too far.

As he settled onto the edge of the couch next to the drummer, fingers peeking out from the ends of crisp white bandages, he watched Davy pace the floor from the corner of his eyes.

"So, when do we find Lydia?"

"What?" Fingertips hovering over Micky's brow, Peter frowned. "We don't. We definitely, definitely don't."

"What? But…Peter, we have to help her!"

Peter shook his head, bewildered, as he tried to feel out the sickness. "No, Davy. We don't."

Davy blew his bangs from his eyes, frustration twisting his face into a scowl. "Of course we do - she's the good guy. We can join up with her, help her defeat Ellis, and-"

"No, Davy. That's not how it works."

"It's the right thing to do, Peter. That's why it's called The Light, innit? Light is right, it's the side of good! How can we just sit back and not help her fight!?"

Peter grit his teeth, shaking fingers pressing against Micky's jaw, his throat, and around to the back of his neck. How was the energy meant to flow? What was the order? Why couldn't he remember?

"You're just gonna sit there and let evil win?" Davy hissed. "After what that bastard did to Micky, you're gonna let him win, when we could be out there, fighting, helping the good guys-"

"That's not how it works, Davy!"

The words echoed sharply in the space between them. Davy stared at him, face tight, eyes full of Decency and The Right Thing, and Peter felt sick. He could feel the tight press of hysterical sobs building up in his throat.

The gross strands of Micky's fever twisted and undulated under his fingertips. His friend shivered, skin clammy with sweat, and looked up at him with dark, ill-bright eyes. Miserable and half out of his mind, Micky looked up at him trustingly, and smiled. He thought Peter could help him, that Peter was strong enough to help him.

Peter felt sicker.

_From the top down_, a memory of his Gran suddenly whispered. _Bottom-up's for combing hair, silly boy_.

"Of course it works like that, Peter," Davy was arguing as Peter tried to comb the slick-hot-squirmy threads of the disease out of Micky's aura. "Light is good, dark is bad, and we're the good guys, right? So we help the light and save the world, and-"

"It doesn't work like that," Peter repeated in a softer voice. "They aren't good or bad, Davy, either of them, and you can't have one stronger than the other. That's just how it is."

"But-"

"And as soon as you start thinking you have the right to judge them - to judge anyone - to be good or evil, you have a problem."

"He's_ hurting_ people, Pete, he's hurt_ Micky_-"

"She hurts people too, Davy," the young shaman replied, pressing his fingertips to Micky's collarbone and dragging them downward in short, quick strokes. "They always do, both sides, ever since the beginning of time, Gran said. She said-"

"Will you_ stop talking about what your sainted Gran said and start thinking for yourself?_"

Peter didn't look up from his clumsy efforts to heal their drummer friend. He wasn't good at this, he never had been. There was so much, so many tiny threads to find and gather, and they kept slithering out of his grasp and burrowing even further.

Of course, he could…

Blinking down at his hands where they had stilled, pressed against Micky's stomach, Peter let his eyes slide shut.

He could feel it there, untouched - Micky's center. He could feel it pulsing in time with Micky's life rhythms, feel it prickling against his own aura invitingly. It felt so nice, so pure, so very _Micky_, and it would be so easy to reach out and just _push_, push every last disgusting bit of sickness out, eradicate it as though it had never been. It would be _so easy_.

Peter opened his eyes.

Davy was watching him, his expression still one of righteous fury, and Peter sighed and let the tingly brightness of everything that was essentially Micky fall away from him.

"When I was, I think…six? Or so? Anyway, I was real little, and my mother and father were fighting over some stupid little thing. I asked Gran why they were fighting over it, and she said it was because they both thought they were right. She said that they each thought they had the better reason, the better plan, the better whatever, and they both thought they had to fight for it."

Micky was murmuring nonsense as Peter continued his task. The blonde could feel Davy staring at him, curious and upset.

"But, Davy, there wasn't anything to fight over, because by the time they were done fighting, they'd forgotten whatever it was that had started it." He smiled at his still-confused friend. "They did that a lot, though. Fought over stupid things instead of compromising, or working together. And it caused a lot of trouble, you know? Nothing got done, no one was happy, and it…it hurt me. _They_ hurt me, not because either of them were right or wrong, but because they each thought the other was wrong. Do you understand?"

Davy perched on the arm of the couch, resting the back of his hand against Micky's brow and heaving a great, quavering sigh. "Yeah, Peter. I think I get it."

"Gran always said that the problem was people who start thinking more than feeling."

"You've gotta think sometimes," Davy pointed out.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, combing his fingers from Micky's shoulders to his elbows. "But you gotta feel, too, or how do you know if you're thinking the wrong things?"

Davy huffed a laugh, watching as Peter continued his clumsy healing.

"Do you miss them?"

Peter blinked. "Miss who?"

"Your parents. I mean, I know you said the fought a lot, but…sorry," Davy muttered, looking away. "Not my business, I guess."

Moving down Micky's body, Peter considered his answer. "I do miss them. All the time. They weren't always the best parents, but they were the only ones I had, you know?"

"Yeah," Davy whispered, eyes distant. "I do."

Minutes turned to hours, and Peter continued, sifting through Micky's aura from top to bottom. Every time he finished, there would be more of the sickness, more ugly little strands of corrupted energy, and he would have to begin again. The sun swung through the sky, dipping down below the horizon. Davy got up to tack a tarp over the broken window and sweep up the glass and heat up Micky's soup from the day before. He coaxed the broth into Peter as the older man worked tirelessly on borrowed energy. And still, Micky didn't improve.

Finally, shaking and swallowing back tears, Peter slumped down, resting his forehead against the back of the couch. "Davy…I can't…I-"

Holding out his hands, Davy tried to smile through his fear. "Take some more."

"I can't…too much already…no time…"

"Peter, please, you have to take more."

"I don't-"

"Good thing I thought to fetch Cousin Lucy, I guess," a weary voice spoke up from the front door.

Peter lurched up, feeling Davy's hand clasp his elbow to steady him as he teetered on the edge of the couch, and stared at Mike.

The Texan smiled comfortingly back and reach around the doorway to pull his cousin into the room. As she removed her hat and crossed the room to gently pull Peter away from his stricken friend, Mike followed.

"Y'all look like you could use a healer."

A/N - Oh, so that's where Mike went.


	7. Death Of A Shaman

Chapter Six: The Death Of A Shaman

Peter watched avidly as Lucy bent over Micky, dragging her fingers down just above his prone form. Her movements were fluid and graceful where his had been stumbling and frantic, and he marveled at how calm she seemed. She caught him staring and smiled.

"You did unbelievably well, Peter," she said softly as she continued her healing, backing towards his feet and making small, dainty pinching motions. He could see the sickly gray-green of the disease, could see as she tugged it all together, molding it into one long thread. He could see the tiny splinters being squished together and drawn out of Micky's aura.

Davy was watching, too, with wide, worried eyes, though Peter know he couldn't see what they saw. "Where does it go?" he murmured in the same soft tones, leaning over the back of the couch and tracking her fingers with his eyes like a cat.

"Nowhere," she said simply. "It's not really anythin' but energy, focused and twisted into something unnatural. I'm just drawin' it out and breaking it apart into natural energy again. Then I just use it to replace what I lose in the healin', and as a bonus, I don't have to draw as much from Micky to get it done."

"Send some Peter's way, then," Davy replied. "He's burnt himself out at least three times in the last couple of days."

"I can tell." Moving back to the head of the couch, Lucy perched on the edge and pressed her fingers to Micky's forehead. "Well, your friend is gonna be okay. He'll probably wake up in a few hours or so-"

Micky's eyes snapped open, and Lucy blinked.

"Or, you know…" She looked up at Peter, bewildered. "He could wake up now."

"Peter," Micky rasped, wriggling weakly as he tried to sit up.

Mike approached then, pushing Micky back down with a hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy, there, babe. You've got a lot of healin' to do before I okay you for active duty."

"Mike?" His fingers scrabbling weakly at Mike's wrists, Micky tried to smile. "Oh, good, we were worried you'd eaten someone…"

As the drummer trailed off, eyes slipping shut, Mike lifted his head and stuck a throw pillow underneath it. Davy handed him the well-loved purple and orange quilt, and the taller man draped it over Micky gently.

"So," he said quietly, looking up at Peter. "Wanna tell me what's been goin' on since I've been gone?"

"Why don't you try telling us why you were gone first," Davy returned with a hint of steel in his tone.

Raising his eyebrows, Mike crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. "Had a feelin' things weren't gonna go so well here, and I knew we'd probably need a healer sooner or later. Not to mention, I had a couple of big ol' holes in my shoulder that I wanted put back together. So, I called up Lucy."

Shaking his head, Davy rolled his eyes. "Mike, it was the middle of the night. You couldn't have mentioned you were leaving? Saved us all a heart attack or two?"

"I had to leave immediately - I didn't have time to stop and explain things, Davy."

"Yeah, and that's another thing." Circling the couch, Davy matched Mike's defensive posture and lifted his chin challengingly. "Aunt Kate's farm is a two day round-trip, Mike. How'd you manage to get there and back in half the time?"

"I didn't." Jerking his head at Lucy, who was watching them curiously, he smirked. "She was in Albuquerque, visiting with a friend. I just picked her up from there."

"Fine, then let's go back to why you left without even saying goodbye," Davy growled.

Mike glowered. "I don't think I have to-"

"Just stop it. Stop it!" Waving his arms jerkily, Peter frowned as mightily as he could manage at them. "Stop fighting, okay? I just…I can't take any more anger today."

He collapsed into the armchair, shoulders slumping, and didn't look up, even when Michael came and perched on the arm, sliding a hand into his hair and petting him comfortingly. "Sorry, Shotgun. I've just been a bit out of sorts."

Davy sat on the other side, arm going around Peter's shoulders. "I'm really sorry, Peter. Just…I was worried, you know?" He looked up at Mike, eyes dark and hurt. "I was worried about you."

"I know. I just…" Sighing, Mike ran his free hand through his own hair. "I knew that if I'd let you know, you woulda started askin' questions, and I just really did not have the time to stop and explain."

"You couldn't have left a note?"

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay?" Leaving off Peter's hair, Mike reached around and ruffled Davy's. "I'm sorry I worried you guys. And I'm sorry I wasn't here for whatever went down. All I knew was that you guys were in danger and I had to go get help."

Peter blinked up at Mike, bewildered. The Texan was staring at the far wall, his expression tight, but otherwise inscrutable. Clearly, there was something that wasn't adding up. Wouldn't it have made more sense for Lucy to come to them? I would have taken half the time, after all. And...and...

Tilting his head, Peter tried to make Mike look him in the eye. "Mike, you wouldn't have just left if you thought we were in danger. Not even to get Lucy. You would have stayed and helped us."

"Unless…" Tipping his head to the side, Davy mimicked Peter in trying to catch Mike's suddenly wary gaze. "Unless you thought you were the danger."

Mike swallowed visibly, staring down as his fingers as he picked at his jeans. "Well, y'see…when I woke up, I was more that a little out of sorts."

"The ghoul bite." Groaning, Peter let his head fall into his hands. "I knew I didn't get it all. I'm so stupid."

"No, Peter." Moving to take the shaman's hands, Lucy shook her head. "No, for an untrained healer, you did incredibly well."

"Not well enough," he breathed, looking back up at Mike. "Michael, I'm so sorry, really. I shouldn't have stopped, I should have-"

"You can't 'should' on yourself, Shotgun," Mike said firmly, going back to threading his fingers through Peter's hair. "You did your best, I know."

"He really pushed himself too far, I think," Davy put in. "He blacked out after."

Mike's fingers stilled for a second before resuming their soothing motions. "There, see? You did everythin' you could. And I'm fine now."

If she hadn't still been holding his hands, Peter wouldn't have noticed the way Lucy tensed, but she was, and he did, and he didn't like it.

"Are you sure?"

"Peter." Moving his hand around to grasp the blonde by the chin, Mike turned his head so they were eye-to-eye. Mike's gaze was open, honest, and soft. "I would not have come back here if I didn't think I was okay. I would never, ever put any of you in danger. You know that."

The tightness in Peter's chest eased. He and Davy let out simultaneous relieved sighs.

Of course Mike wouldn't have come back if he'd still been infected. He would never have let himself get close to them if that were the case. Lucy's tension had to have been incidental, right?

Right.

Nodding to himself as if to help that confidence set, Peter leaned back in the chair, pinning Davy's arm behind his neck. "This is all a mess."

And all my fault, he added silently.

Davy seemed to read his mind, though, because he curled his arm as best he could, drawing Pater to him in an awkward hug. "Not your fault, Peter. We'll figure it out."

"But not right now," Lucy said firmly, finally letting go of Peter's hands. He realized, abruptly, that she'd been carefully feeling him out. He felt exposed, and he flushed under her knowing gaze. "Peter's runnin' on fumes, and I know Mike's in no state to be runnin' around right now. And am I right in assumin' you let Peter borrow from you, Davy?" At his nod, she sighed. "Then really, none of you are fit to be fightin'. Let's all give it a rest for tonight, and we can work out what to do in the mornin'."

Peter struggled to his feet, taking a moment to untangle himself from his friends' arms, and staggered towards the back door.

"Uh, Peter…where do you think you're going?"

Blinking at Davy, Peter gestured to the door. "I have to check my barrier. I didn't even feel Lucy, so it's probably-"

"Oh, like you'd even be able to walk in a straight line," Lucy said admonishingly, pointing towards the downstairs bedroom. "You get your hind-end to bed, and I'll take a look at the barrier. I have more than enough energy left over from the healing."

She shooed them each off to bed, following Mike up the staircase with hands outstretched, about which Mike laughed.

"Kid, if I fall, I will squash you flat. I've got about half a mile's height on you."

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, get your scrawny butt up there and get to bed."

Peter heard her muttering to herself as she came back downstairs.

"Stubborn as a goat and about as ungainly as a baby giraffe, that boy."

He heard Davy snickering into his pillow and, with a grin, Peter rolled over and let the gently wave of her barrier weaving lull him to sleep.

He dreamt of a small white house with a gray roof and blue shutters. Slowly, as if moving through molasses, he skipped up the steps, steps he knew like the back of his hand. He could hear the clatter of acorns dropping onto the roof from the gray old tree in the backyard, but it was oddly magnified, echoing in his head until it became a rain shower.

It was freezing, and the sun was nowhere to be seen, and a light mist dampened his face as the wind blew forlornly down the porch. Lightning illuminated the windows, windows with odd, dark handprints on them, handprints that oozed. His breath stuck in his throat, and Peter coughed and coughed.

Teeth, not his own, but fangs like a ghoul's spilled from his throat amidst blood and bile and bounced away underneath the front door. Thunder rolled, became roars of rage and screams and sobs, and Peter scraped at the door with his fingers, trying to shout, to say anything.

Nothing came out.

As he fell to his knees, more blood pooled, this time seeping from underneath the door. Gasping for air, Peter scrambled backwards on his butt.

Blood flowed in the old cracks in the wood, from the edges of the door, from the windows, from the clapboards. It poured in great, slow, sticky floods, inching towards him as the thunder and the rain and the screaming rattled in his skull.

"Peter! No! Peter! Peter!"

Scooting further back, he reached the steps, and suddenly he was slipping down, farther than he should, down and down until-

"Peter!"

Jerking awake as he hit the floor, Peter scrabbled at the blankets around him, breathing heavily. Davy knelt at his side, reaching out to help him untangle his arms and legs from the bedding.

"You were having a nightmare," Davy explained quietly. "You were screaming."

"Sorry," Peter quavered, scrubbing at his damp cheeks. "S-sorry."

Finally tugging the blanket free, Davy carefully wrapped it around Peter's shoulders and pulled him close, hugging him tightly. "Don't be sorry, Pete. It's okay. It's just a dream."

Peter's breath hitched a bit, and he hugged Davy hard. "I was s-scared. I couldn't…couldn't do anything. I was so scared. It was all my fault."

There was a moment of silence before Davy replied. "You mean, what happened to your parents?"

Peter nodded against Davy's shoulder. "N-not just them. E-everything. They ruined everything. Everyone got hurt - my aunts and uncles and cousins…Grandpa…everyone. It's all gone now."

"That isn't your fault, Peter. That could never be your fault."

"When Gran found me…I thought she'd be mad at me. I didn't do anything to stop them. They murdered them. They murdered everyone I loved, and I didn't do anything to stop them." Peter clutched at Davy, so afraid that if he didn't he'd just crack apart into all his ugly pieces, and that Davy would see how empty and useless he was inside. "I hid. The whole time, I hid."

"Good." Davy squeezed him so tightly he could almost feel all the cracks in his heart sealing back up. "I'm glad you hid, Peter. I'm sure your Gran was, too."

"They wanted me then," Peter admitted weakly. "They each wanted me to go with them, but I didn't want to."

"I know."

"I don't want to go with them now."

"I know." With a final, rib-creaking squeeze, Davy let Peter go. "We won't let them take you, Peter."

Peter nodded numbly, thinking back to the last time he'd heard someone say that, of the blood and the pain that had followed, and sighed. He was terrified of history repeating itself, but what could he do? How could he stop it?

When they'd managed to wriggle into their clothes and trudge out to the living room, they were surprised to see Micky arguing quietly with Lucy.

"He needs his friends, damn it, just let me go-"

"Peter does _not_ need his friends trippin' all over the place and getting' themselves hurt, you-"

"Would you just-"

"Peter!" Smiling in relief, Lucy straightened up. "Could you tell Micky you're okay so he can stop behavin' like a spoiled brat and get back to recuperatin'?"

Smiling as best he could, Peter went to Micky's side and patted him on the shoulder. "I'm okay, Micky. Just rest."

Micky, sleep-rumpled and still alarmingly pale, scowled at him. "That's just a load of crap, Peter. You were screaming. You've been crying. You're not okay. I just…" Shaking his head, Micky let himself flop back onto his pillow. "I just wish I could do something other than lay here like a sack of utterly hopeless potatoes."

"You're not hopeless," Peter promised. "You saved me, you know."

Grinning lopsidedly at his best friend, Micky waved one hand vaguely. "Yeah, well. That's what I do, babe - rush in, save the damsel in distress, nearly get my dumb ass killed, get saved by another guy half my size. All part of the plan."

"Watch it," Davy said teasingly. "I may be half your size, but I can still hold you down and make you eat broccoli."

"Oh, god, anything but that."

Peter looked at Lucy, who was busying herself with tucking in the quilt around Micky. "Where's Mike?"

"I sent him out for some provisions," she said absently. "If nothing else, you're out of milk."

Peter nodded, tamping down the urge to pace. "Okay. Well…I'd rather do this with him here, but we really need to discuss what we're going to do about Ellis and Lydia."

Davy shrugged. "What can we do? I mean, they're not getting their hands on you, Peter, but…"

"Isn't there some way we can, I don't know, trap them in a magic mirror or something?"

Lucy snorted, and Peter even managed to crack a smile. "No, Micky," he said fondly.

The four of them were still and silent for a long time, each wrapped up in their own thoughts.

"I'm going to have to do this a lot smarter," Peter murmured suddenly, tracing his lips with the tips of his fingers absently. "I won't be able to stop them if I keep doing things the way I have been."

"Stop them?" Micky struggled into a sitting position, ignoring Lucy's annoyed huff. His hands shook as he reached out to grasp Peter's sleeve. "Peter…what does that mean, 'stop them'?"

Peter regarded him with sad eyes, and Micky's shoulders slumped.

"Aw, Peter, no," he breathed.

Davy let his head fall into his hands. "Peter…Peter, you couldn't even kill a ghoul to save your own life."

"This isn't just about my life, though." Hugging himself, Peter swallowed thickly. "It's about our lives. Your lives."

"We were there when you killed that thing," Micky said, allowing Lucy to press him back down onto the couch and tuck the orange and purple quilt around him. "We saw how it tore you up, man. You really think you'd be able to kill humans?"

Peter shrugged.

"No," Davy said, standing up and pacing agitatedly. "It was hard enough for you to kill a ghoul. Killing those two isn't going to be any easier."

"Killing should never be easy, Davy," Peter replied. "And…I don't know if I can. I might not be able to. They might…they might get the better of me. But at least then-"

"No." Micky was wrestling with his quilt again. As he tore the bedding off and lurched half-off the couch, Peter met him halfway, lifting him back into place and frowning at him disapprovingly.

"Micky-"

The curly-haired man grasped at Peter's shirt as tightly as he could manage in his weakened state. "No," he repeated, struggling to draw in a deep breath.

Then Davy was there, helping Peter calm their friend, laying the quilt back over him as Peter threaded his fingers through Micky's tangled mop of hair. "It's okay, Micky. It's okay. I'm still here."

Davy pursed his lips as Peter soothed Micky back to sleep. "You are not going to just run off and get yourself killed, Peter. We are your _friends_. We are your _family_. You can't just leave us behind and go traipsing off on some kind of misguided suicide mission."

"Then what else am I supposed to do, Davy?" Perching carefully on the arm of the couch, he cast his eyes toward the second floor bedroom, wishing he had Mike at his shoulder, guiding him. "I don't know what to do, okay? I don't know how to save you guys, and the longer I wait, the worse it'll be when they make their move."

"I don't care," Davy ground out, grabbing Peter's shoulder and giving him a little shake. "You aren't going to do it, you can't do it, and we won't let you do it. That's that, Peter."

Slowly, reluctantly, Peter nodded. It was one of the most painful things he'd ever had to do, but he nodded, and watched sadly as Davy, seemingly satisfied, released him and went to sit down.

There was another awkward silence which Mike handily broke by trudging in with arms full of groceries. "Courtesy of Lucy and Aunt Kate," he grumbled petulantly as Davy moved to help him. "Apparently, we're tragically under stocked."

"Who knew?" Davy joked.

Peter turned and moved to kneel backwards on the armchair, folding his arms over the back of it and resting his head on them, watching his friends move about the kitchen fondly. He memorized the way they moved in perfect sync born of years of working and living together. He couldn't hide a small smile when Davy easily ducked under Mike's arms to get past him, watching as Mike tossed boxes and cans over his shoulder, trusting Davy to catch them. He listened to their easy patter, Mike's soft, gentle wit and Davy's bitingly cheeky humor. He traced their auras in his mind carefully, etching it into his consciousness as deeply as he could.

Twisting, he looked at Micky, who had managed to curl up on his side, as usual. His curls fell into his face, which was relaxed in sleep, and Peter was glad to see a bit of color returning to his cheeks. He looked so still in sleep, such a glaring contrast from how he was in his waking hours. Peter curled up properly in the chair, sitting cross-legged, and watched Micky breathe. He traced Micky's aura, too, pressing it into his mind, deeper and more indelibly than he'd ever memorized anything else. He let it sink in with all his other memories of Micky, who had been his first friend, the first member of his new family. Micky, who had saved him from the self-loathing and the fear and the loneliness.

He would miss him. He would miss all of them.

Looking up at Lucy, he met her eyes. She looked sad, and resigned, and she smiled at him and nodded.

When Mike and Davy returned, they woke Micky, and he laid out his plan for them. He explained that Ellis' powers would be weakest at noon, and Lydia's at midnight. He told them he would take the rest of the day to gather his strength, and that he would take them on tomorrow, separately. He nodded when they insisted on going with him, agreeing that they would all be fit enough in time. He smiled when they reassured him that they would do everything they could to protect him.

He believed them.

It was nearing dawn, though, when he crept out of bed. He looked over at Davy, his heart heavy. The Englishman was curled up with his pillow, mumbling quietly as he dreamt.

Tugging on his boots, he leaned over his roommate and kissed him on the temple. "Thank you, David," he breathed, nearly silent. He pulled Davy's blankets up to his chin and left.

He crept up the stairs next, easing into Mike's room. The Texan was sprawled across his bed, mouth hanging open, looking far younger than he ever did awake. Brushing his bangs aside, he kissed him on the forehead, and he whispered, "Thank you, Michael."

Finally, descending the stairs and moving to the couch, he sat beside Micky as he slept, threading his fingers through Micky's curls one last time. Leaning down, he kissed his best friend on the nose, smiling when the snoring young man sighed and reached out in his dreams. Catching his hand, Peter placed it carefully over the quilt and squeezed it briefly. "Thank you, Micky. For everything."

"You're really goin'," Lucy said as he stepped onto the balcony.

Peter nodded, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "I have to."

"You really don't."

"If I want them to be safe, I do."

Lucy looked at him then, long and hard, and reached up to take his face between her dainty hands. "You are stronger than you know, Peter Tork. Stronger, braver, and better than any shaman I've ever met. And I've met quite a few."

Pulling his face down, she kissed him on the cheek.

"I'll be keepin' an eye on you, okay?"

Peter nodded, unable to answer past the lump in his throat. He turned and, without once looking back at the home he'd made with the three greatest people he'd ever known, he walked away.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking when they found him, but a quick glance up and down the beach showed that the Pad was nowhere to be seen. He hunched his shoulders, turning back to face the pair of them.

"You've decided, then?" Lydia asked, smiling at him gently.

Peter nodded, still not trusting himself to speak without bursting into tears.

"And?"

"And…" Taking a shuddering breath, Peter clenched his fists in his pockets. "And, I want you to go away. I want you to go away, and never, ever come back."

"Peter." Ellis stepped forward, curling his lip at Lydia when she did the same, warning in her eyes. "Peter, you know you belong with me. Our power would be unlimited. The things we could do, the people we could help!"

"Help?" Lydia snorted, tossing her wavy locks back from her face. "You've never done good in your life. All you know how to do it tear things apart."

"Stop it," Peter breathed tiredly, shaking his head. "Just stop it."

Either they hadn't heard him, or they didn't care, because the roiling anger surrounding them only grew, sand shifting away in great ripples as they faced each other, Peter's existence all but forgotten. Curling in on himself, Peter watched helplessly as they raged at each other.

They had been in love once, or so he'd been told when he was very young. Madly in love, despite being on opposite ends of the shamanic balance. Like yin and yang, circling each other eternally, forever joined. And, so the story went, they'd been happy.

He watched their faces twist in ugly, hateful ways, watched their hands slash violently through the air as they shouted, and wondered how they could ever have been happy.

Then it happened, seemingly in slow motion. Shoving Ellis backwards, Lydia drew her hand back. Peter watched her chaotically swirling aura, golden as the sun, concentrate and sharpen and flame around her palm, and he knew what she intended to do.

"No," he whispered, lurching forward. Without thinking, he lunged, tumbling to a stop between them. "Don't-"

Too late, Lydia stopped. Far too late, he knew as he watched her lovely blue eyes widen. He watched with morbid fascination as her energy burst from her, slamming into his chest and straight into his heart. The pain was excruciating, searing white-hot in his marrow, and then suddenly, there was nothing beneath him, and he was falling away from the world.

He heard, dimly, Ellis' voice, thick with rage.

"You killed him! You killed our son!"

And then there was nothing.

A/N - Oh. So…did I just get Peter murdered by his mother? Whoops. Shout-out to Tiger Lily, who totally called it. You get a cookie! Everyone be honest, though - how many of you already had it figured out?

Aaaand now I'm taking the weekend off. =3 See you with a new chapter in a few days, my dears!


	8. Echoes Of Our Tears In The Abyss

Chapter Seven: Echoes Of Our Tears In The Abyss

It was a small house, though it had seemed bigger when Peter was smaller. Whitewashed clapboards, blue shutters, gray roof with shingles always fluttering off. The porch was painted white, too, and there was a swing on it. He'd spent a lot of his summers on that swing, sipping iced tea, tugging bits of the damp air back and forth, swinging himself while Grandpa laughed.

Inside, he knew, were stacks and piles and cupboards full of things - charm sachets and cuckoo clocks, bits of old paper full of strange writing, silvery coins and walking sticks. Gran would always be shuffling it about, sighing about what a pack rat Grandpa was, but always with a fond smile. Peter would help her a lot of the time, especially when it was a wet day. He'd always loved the smell of dusty old things, especially the books, and Gran would give him one to read while she made lunch. He'd mostly look at the pictures - great swirls of ink, and sometimes faded stains of color, depicting long-dead shamans doing fantastic things.

Sometimes, when there was a storm, he'd get distracted from his reading, watching the rain on the windowpane cast slithering shadows over the wall. Gran would sigh and smile at him, and she and Grandpa would stand on either side of him with their arms around him. They'd stand so close that the three of them cast one big shadow, and Peter would pretend he was looking at the shadows of his parents holding him. He never told his grandparents, though - talking about his parents made them both sad.

They fought for as long as he could remember, and usually about nothing at all. Little snatches of petty bickering and pointless sniping and snapping, and cool disinterest the rest of the time. As he grew older, though, the quiet moments became fewer and further between, until there was hardly a second that the energy in his house wasn't crackling horribly. Gran had tried to explain it to him - she'd told him how in love they'd been, back before their differences started to weigh heavy on them. About how sometimes all the strife and the pain in the world got to people, and how sometimes they chose different paths to try to rectify it.

"But why do we have to choose sides?" he'd asked, curled up in her lap. "Why do there have to be sides? We should all just be nice to each other. That would make everything better."

She'd hugged him tightly then, her smile as wide as he'd ever seen it. "You sound just like your mother," she'd said softly, but Peter didn't see it. He couldn't remember a time his mother was ever nice - just angry and rigid and full of The Right Thing, as full as his father was of The Ends Justify The Means.

Peter didn't like those words. He never had. They sounded awfully cold and cruel.

It wasn't until he'd turned seven, though, that the fighting became more personal than political unrest and social justice. It was about then, when most children begin formal training, that his parents' arguments were suddenly peppered with his name. He could feel them pulling, always, tugging his heart in all directions, heedless of it slowly and surely tearing in half.

Gran had been the matriarch, though, and tradition said she was the one who should train him. He had been so happy when she'd come to pick him up, waving farewell to his parents. He'd felt a bit badly that he'd been so happy to see them shrinking into the distance, but as soon as he'd caught sight of the little white house, Grandpa swinging on the porch, his entire center had eased.

It had been his favorite place - the one place in the world where it was quiet, and calm, and didn't rub at his aura like a cheese grater.

Now Peter sighed, settling against the trunk of his great-grandfather's oak, and smiled. If ever there was a place where he would happily spend eternity, this was it. He rested, for the first time in a long time, letting the sway of the old branches mesmerize him.

A flash of dusty brown amongst the gray branches caught his eye, and everything inside him turned to ice in an instant.

Slowly, the spotted eagle-owl turned its head, golden eyes piercing him. For a long moment, they stared at one another, before she gave a soft hoot, spreading her wings and launching herself from the tree, swooping away over the fence.

No, he thought, but he couldn't make his mouth say it. No, please, no.

He remembered this day. He remembered it so well - the day everything truly fell apart.

"Peter!"

Looking up at Grandpa as he ran across the yard to him, Peter could feel himself coming unraveled at the edges. Grandpa's expression was tight and determined, as it had been that day all those years ago. This day.

Why, though? Had he done so poorly in life that he was doomed to relive the worst day of his life over and over for eternity? Was he in hell?

Peter wanted to scream, wanted to warn him, wanted to do something, anything, to stop what was about to happen.

"Peter," Grandpa said, voice shaking a bit despite his attempts to stay calm. "We're going to play a game, okay? You and I. We're going to play hide and seek."

Peter felt his face twist into a frown, even though he knew now what Grandpa's intentions were. "Cousin Bobby says hide and seek is for little kids," his mouth said. His thirteen-year-old mouth. "He doesn't even play it, an' he's only six."

"I still play hide and seek, don't I?" Reaching out and lifting Peter to his feet, Grandpa smiled. It was a different sort of smile than usual, and Peter didn't like it - it looked sad, and it made his eyes look older than they should. Even then, it had sent strange shivers down Peter's spine. "I'm a lot older than you, so that makes it okay, right?"

Peter nodded. He didn't want to, didn't want to agree to any of this, but he couldn't stop himself. "Okay, Grandpa."

"Now go, hide. Real quick, okay? And remember to tamp yourself down so I can't feel you, just like we always do."

Nodding again, Peter took off for the house. Try as he might, he couldn't will his feet or his voice to obey. He watched, trapped inside himself, as he stumbled into the kitchen and crawled into the cabinet under the sink. Slowly, clumsily, he tamped down his center, gathering bits and pieces of the room's ambient energy about himself like camouflage. Wriggling back as far as he could, he arranged the bottles of soap and furniture polish in front of himself like a wall. He curled up on his side, hugging his knees to himself, and tried to quiet his breathing.

He'd never hated tiny spaces as a child, but after this day…already, Peter could feel his nerves cracking at the closeness, but his thirteen-year-old self just lay there, calmly awaiting the seeker.

Instead of playing, though, Grandpa came to a stop right outside the cabinet. Peter could feel a barrier being woven, and heard the soft, comforting words. "No matter what, Peter," Grandpa said, "you stay hidden. That's the game. No matter what you hear, you stay hidden."

Peter tried, tried so hard, but he couldn't stop himself. "Okay, Grandpa," he replied in a whisper, curling up tighter. They'd done practice drills like this before - vampire drills and poltergeist drills and ghoul drills. Little Peter knew how to hide when needed.

Peter could remember now, as clearly as it had been yesterday, how it seemed like he'd been huddled in that cabinet for hours. Now, though, he could tell that mere minutes had passed when he'd heard his father's voice.

"I have come for my son," he said in iron tones. "You will return him to me."

"He hasn't finished his training, Ellis. You know I can't-"

"Damn it, Jack! Give me my son!"

"_Your_ son?" his mother's voice cut in suddenly. "Since when is he only _your_ son?"

Little Peter curled up tighter, and older Peter didn't even try to stop him. He could feel the tears pricking at his eyes, the urge to bury his face in his arms and cry himself to sleep the way he always did when they started to fight. Older Peter wished he could do so now - it would be better than witnessing this again.

"I knew it, I just knew you'd come storming in here, trying to snatch Peter up for yourself like a goddamned thief," his mother hissed.

"Oh? And what are you doing here, exactly? Come to 'check on him'? Is that why you packed up the car?"

"I'm not going to let you turn my child to darkness, Ellis!"

"You stupid cow! You never understood true power! It's always Light Is Right with you!"

"It _is_ right, Ellis!"

"No, Lydia, it's control! You think everyone has to fall in line, and anyone who doesn't is disposable!"

"How _dare_ you!"

"_Stop it_," Grandpa roared, causing Peter to flinch. He'd never heard Grandpa raise his voice before, not even the time Peter had dropped a box of amulets on his toes. It sounded like a roll of thunder, and Peter quivered. "Just stop it, both of you! It's no wonder the boy was so glad to get away, the way you carry on."

Peter wished Grandpa hadn't brought him up; it had been better when they'd been fighting about nothing. That was always better than when they fought over him.

"Where is he," Peter's father growled.

"He's out with Diane."

"Then I'll wait."

Peter heard Grandpa sigh, could feel him tugging at the energy of the room, building his strength. From the rustling in the room, he knew his parents could feel it, as well, and were readying themselves.

"No, you are going to turn around and leave. You don't get him back until he's eighteen - you know that. He can decide then who he's going to become."

"After you've poisoned him against us!"

"If anyone here is poisoning anyone, Lydia, it's you and your husband."

"Dad…I just want my child. Don't do this. Don't make me hurt you."

Grandpa didn't answer for a moment. Then, gently, he said, "Lydia, I have never in my life made you do anything. Whatever you do here today, it is entirely your choice, and your consequences to bear."

"Jack, if you don't hand Peter over right now," his father warned, "I will take him by whatever force necessary."

"I'm sure you'll try," Grandpa answered evenly, seemingly unafraid.

Peter was, though, old and young. He could feel the way Ellis was building on his center, the way Lydia was weaving her energy just the way she had on the beach, when she'd struck Peter. He knew what was coming, and little Peter, blissfully innocent though he was, could feel what was coming, too. He let out a tiny whimper, barely audible, but it was enough.

"Hiding him from me, Dad?"

"Yes, Lydia, because I had to. I won't let you-"

There was a cry of rage, and Peter felt the shockwave in his stomach, his hair ruffling a bit in the ripples of power. He clapped both hands over his mouth, stifling a startled yelp, as something heavy thumped against the cabinet doors. For a long moment, all was silent.

"What…oh, god, Ellis, what did you…what have you _done_?"

"What I had to do. I….I did what I had to do."

Peter reached out tentatively with his aura, feeling for Grandpa, but all he felt was a yawning emptiness.

Grandpa was gone. And that meant…that meant his barrier was gone, Peter realized.

Terrified, Peter reached out again and pushed and pulled at the remains of the tree that still lived in the cabinet doors, yanking and knotting until it was solid, leaves tickling his nose. He could feel his parents prying at the thick wood, and he turned them aside as best he could, pushing and pushing until he felt roots beneath his body, rippling up out of the bottom of the cabinet. He could hear the roof of the little white house groaning and cracking, the window over the sink shattering, the floorboards being thrust upward. He grew the tree around himself, his first real tree.

"Peter! Stop this!"

"God damn it, Ellis!"

Reaching out, Peter grasped his parents' centers and grasped and twisted and tore, weaving the bits he gained into his own center, and pushed it into his tree.

Stop, he told himself in vain. Stop, that's not how it works. You can't do that.

But little Peter didn't listen. He pulled and pushed and grew and screamed all the while.

"Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Go away! Please! Leave me alone!"

He tore at them in terror, draining them, forcing the too-tall, too-big tree up and up and out, until, quite suddenly, he couldn't feel anything to tear at anymore.

"…Mom? Dad?" Quivering, Peter curled in on himself and sobbed.

Older Peter could remember the feeling too clearly, thinking he'd killed his parents out of fear and anger. He remembered the disgust with himself, with them, with everything. But mostly he remembered reaching out, searching desperately, not for them, but for Grandpa.

It was hours before Gran, patiently and gently pulling apart what he'd grown until there was an opening, right where the cabinet doors had been. Tears in her eyes, she'd reached into the small space, knocking the bottles and cans of cleaner aside, and holding her arms open to Peter.

They had run then, leaving behind the house with its blue shutters and its porch swing and its piles of dusty mysteries, leaving behind the too-big hawthorn, and beside it, a small cypress that still felt a bit like Grandpa. Peter had the presence of mind to grab a leaf as Gran had swept him away - all he would ever have left of Grandpa.

They had hidden, tucked away in an apartment in Hartford, until Peter was eighteen. Every few weeks, Gran would get a call, and she would listen with her eyes shut tight, her fingers twisting the phone cord anxiously. She would tell Peter, later that night, that it was nothing to worry about.

When he'd turned seventeen, he'd listened in on the other line, and found out the truth.

"Ruthie wouldn't talk, Diane," Auntie Zelda would say quietly, sadly. "She held out as long as she could, and she didn't talk."

And he knew then that, one by one, his family had placed themselves between Peter and his parents. And, one by one, they fell. He wanted to say something, wanted to make his family stop, wanted them to just stand aside, but he couldn't bear the thought of his parents finding him.

He was so afraid.

When the call came on the night before his eighteenth birthday, Peter listened in silently on the other line. It wasn't Auntie Zelda this time - it was an unfamiliar voice, and it only said three words.

"Zelda's dead. Run."

He'd played along when Gran talked about it being about time to move on, trying to enjoy the early birthday cake she served him after dinner, trying to smile. He'd pretended, all the way to the train station, that he didn't know the real reason they were running again.

He stood by the platform, watching the crowd while Gran slipped off to the bathroom, before glancing down at his ticket. Young Peter knew what he wanted to do. Older Peter wasn't so sure.

"It was a brave thing to do, Pete," Mike's voice said softly at his shoulder.

Suddenly, everything seemed to freeze, and Peter whirled around under his own power. He drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Mike. Or, rather, the sight of a frozen porter, clearly visible through Mike's fairly-transparent form.

"Oh, no, Mike," he whispered.

Mike laughed. "No, no, Shotgun. I'm okay. Lucy was keepin' an eye on you, she said you might need a bit of help."

Astral projection, Peter thought, shoulders slumping in relief. He tried to focus on what Mike was saying.

"You've got a tough choice here, Peter," the Texan was explaining.

"Not much of one," Peter cut in. "I already made this choice, back when I was eighteen. There's no changing it."

"Mmhmm. But that ain't the choice I'm talkin' about. See, Lucy explained it to me - you're kinda in-between right now, and you can either drag yourself back, or…"

Peter breathed deeply. "Or I can move on."

Mike nodded, face twisting into a pained expression. "An' I know which I'd rather you do, but…I can't make the choice for you. Whatever happens here, man, it's gotta be your choice."

_Whatever you do here today, it is entirely your choice, and your consequences to bear._

Peter's shoulders slumped. "It's not much of a choice, anyway. I can't just leave you guys to deal with them."

"Don't you worry about us none, Peter," Mike interjected sternly. "We're tougher than you think - we'll be okay, no matter what you choose."

Peter had nothing to say to that - he didn't believe it for a second, but he gave Mike credit for trying. He sighed. "Guess there's no reason the hang around here, then," he said quietly.

Mike stared at him sadly. "Peter…look, man, Lucy told me I wasn't supposed to try to talk you into comin' back - said it wasn't my place. Well, to be honest, I think she's full of it. Of course it's my place. You're my friend, my little older brother, and I'm supposed to look out for you. I'm not ready to give you up yet."

Swallowing thickly, Peter shook his head.

"I really failed you this time, Shotgun," Mike said, hunching his non-corporeal shoulders and sighing through his nose. "I mean, you really needed help here, and I just ran for it."

"It's okay, Mike," Peter tried to reassure him, even though he was pretty positive it wasn't okay. It didn't feel okay, in any case.

Mike seemed to think so, too, because he slumped in on himself even further. "No, it ain't. Look, Pete, I ain't good at all this stuff, y'know? That was all Ma's side of the family, and she never did have much patience for it. I guess I get it from her. I just…" He shrugged. "I guess I just figured maybe Lucy could help where I couldn't, y'know? I shouldn't have run out on ya, though. I shoulda called and had her hightail it out here herself. I shoulda-"

"My younger big brother told me once that you can't 'should' on yourself," Peter cut in suddenly, trying a reassuring smile.

"Yeah," Mike chuckled, returning the smile somewhat. "And, look, we can talk about all this later, but Pete, if you're goin' back, you got a job to do."

Suddenly, Peter felt like he was thirteen again, curled tightly in that musty cabinet, feeling too well the rage and pain that was lashing about. He could feel the rift, incapable of being bridged now, now that Grandpa was gone. And when it had gone quiet, Gran had reached in and plucked him from behind the cleansers. They had both been pale, and shaking, and crying, and she had held him to her for a long time. Then, grasping his face, she had told him that someday, he would have a job to do.

"I can't," he rasped now, his throat tight. "I can't hurt them. I can't."

Mike's spirit reached out and held Peter's spirit to his for a long time. "It's okay, Shotgun. You don't have to."

He gave Peter a gentle shove.

Opening his eyes, Peter gasped, feeling a familiar unfamiliar energy coursing through him. It tingled along his fingers and crackled in his teeth, tasting of dry desert air and the sound of coyotes in the night. And there was something else in it, something slick and cold and strange.

Gathering Mike's offering to his center, Peter rolled up onto his knees and stared at his parents as they strained against each other. They stood still, toe to toe, but Peter could see the roiling, violent battle going on between them clearly as ever.

It would never end, would it?

_ Whatever you do here today, it is entirely your choice._

_ It's okay, Shotgun._

_ Didn't you think we'd still be your friends, no matter what?_

_ Just do your best, Peter._

_ You have to make a decision here, Peter._

Letting his eyes slip shut, Peter reached out for his parents' centers and grabbed hold. Slowly, trying to ignore their sudden, pained shouts, he pushed. He pushed and pushed, and as he rearranged the very cores of their beings, he couldn't help but lift his chin and look them in the eye.

Peter wondered about them as he watched their limbs twist and thicken and split. He wondered if, when he'd slipped away, they'd run to him. If they'd held him. If they'd tried to revive him. If they'd cried for him. If they'd even given him a second glance. He wondered, as hot tears tracked down his cheeks, if they'd been even the littlest bit sad.

"Peter," his mother croaked, reaching out to him with fingers that twisted and put forth buds.

He wondered if she'd reached out to him like that when he'd been struck. If she'd called his named so pitifully when Gran had swept him away and out of her reach forever.

His father shuddered, bark scaling his jaw as he struggled to open it. "Peter," he rasped. "Peter, please."

'Peter, please.' Had he begged like that when Peter's lifeless body had been sprawled on the ground? Had he called to him, begged him to wake up?

Somehow….

Somehow, he didn't think they had. They hadn't done any of it. In the end, the very end, their war was still more important to them than their son was, just as it always had been.

As their frightened eyes and gaping mouths became knots, and their arms arced high, their fingers entwined and tangled irreversibly, their toes writhing deep into the sand, Peter let out a choked sob.

"I'm…I'm s-sorry," he gasped, pushing one final, determined time. "I'm so sorry. I love you both. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

But trees didn't have mouths and tongues and lungs to answer, and Peter would never know if they heard him, if they forgave him.

He didn't think they would have, anyway.

Slowly, Peter crawled towards the two ash trees, snuggling himself down amongst the roots. He looked up at the branches, his parents' fingers curled around each others' in their new life as they had never been in their previous one. Curling up as tightly as he could, Peter buried his face in his arms and wept.

A/N - AHAHAHA.

HAHA.

Still not totally satisfied, but whatevs.

There is an epilogue and a Part Two teaser coming shortly.


	9. Epilogue: Can't Want And Won't Will

Who Had Strength Enough To Pull Down The Moon

By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

Epilogue: Can't Want And Won't Will

It's about three weeks after that night on the beach that Micky grabs Peter's hands and, pulling him up off the bandstand, drags him out the door. Peter stumbles behind his best friend, content at the feel of the drummer's hand in his, proof that Micky is really there.

Sometimes, in Peter's dreams, he is not. None of them are.

No one has spoken of that night, of what happened to Peter's parents, of how it happened. No one has said anything about it. Peter catches them sometimes, though, looking at him sadly, shoulders sagging in sympathy.

He wants to tell them it's okay, that he's okay, but he doesn't think he is, and no matter how badly he'd broken his promise not to lie that night, he couldn't bring himself to break it any more. So he just smiles back, as sad as they are, and no one says anything.

He's afraid, when Micky pulls him all the way to the ash trees, that his friend will try to talk to him now. He's not sure he can. But Micky just smiles at him, not sad so much as understanding, and nestles himself down among the roots. Peter smiles back and follows suit.

It's peaceful there now, no fighting or yelling or angry auras, and Peter rests against Micky tiredly, propping his chin on the drummer's thin shoulder and watching the surf roll in and out.

They fit nicely between the twisted roots of the ash trees, legs a bit tangled, shoulders pressed together. The branches, knotted and gnarled, cast strange, beautiful patterns over them in the light of the crescent moon.

Micky laughs quietly. "Hey, Pete. Bet you can pull down the moon."

"No," Peter says with a smile, letting his eyes slide shut as prickles and tingles run across the palms of his hands. "No, I can't," he adds, precisely because he can't.

Even if, were he someone entirely different, he probably could.

THE END.

A/N - And now have a nice little preview of Part Two, which is, as of yet, unnamed!

"Hey, Mike, you about done in there," Davy calls, brow furrowed in confusion. "You've been in there for an hour and a half!"

"I'll be out shortly," Mike's voice calls from the other side of the bathroom door, muffled by the barrier.

Shrugging, Davy walks away.

On the other side of the door, Mike listens, gripping the sink until his knuckles are ready to pop, sweat rolling down his forehead. He can hear Davy's heartbeat getting fainter and fainter, the scent of flesh dissipating, and he nearly relaxes.

Looking up into the mirror, Mike feels tears gathering in his red-tinged eyes, and he draws in a hissing breath between too-sharp teeth.

"Mike, are you sure you're okay," Peter calls, his voice accompanied by the sweet scent of meat, and Mike swallows hard, trying not to breathe through his nose.

"I'm fine," he growls, his voice sounding too deep, too strange, and Peter, too, walks away.

Mike looks back at himself, watching his face as it contorts, his pupils dilating to slim slits, ears slightly more pointed than normal. He shudders, feeling the gnawing hunger eating its way through his belly, and he lets himself slip to the floor. He sits there, resting the side of his face against the cabinet, and whines.

He'd been so stupid to think it was over, so very stupid, and now he didn't know if he'd be strong enough to save his friends this time. He wasn't even sure he could save himself.


End file.
